


Spooky 2019

by FishFlesh



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Asphyxiation, Blood Drinking, Body Horror, Buried Alive, Cannibalism, Crushing, Death, Drowning, Eye Trauma, Fate, Ghosts, Hacking, Horror, Human Sacrifice, Just to be safe, Magic, Maybe - Freeform, Mutilation?, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Occult, Other, Possession, Potions, Psychological Horror, Siphoning, Spiders, Suicide, Too many eyes, Torture, Wounds, body rot, burned alive, creepy crawlies, fortune, ish, thalassophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-11-08 21:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 31
Words: 25,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20842274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FishFlesh/pseuds/FishFlesh
Summary: I made my own list of prompts for October by picking spookyish words from word generators.:V October best month, tell me I'm wrong.Tags will change as things go along,  notes will have chapter specific warnings to the best of my ability, etc.





	1. Howl

**Author's Note:**

> Warngings: Mention and description of robot wounds. Probable dread.

Mirage double checked the blast panels he’d pulled down over the doors, making sure they were secure and nothing would be getting in. Already the howls were echoing off the hills to the west, those things were coming after them--as if they hadn’t caused enough trouble already.

The wound on the spy’s forearm throbbed.

There was a moment to look at the ragged, torn metal where they’d ripped into his fine plating, but Mirage was already moving before the thought finished, hurrying into the central room of the tiny outpost to where Hound was patching the gaping hole torn into his thigh with shaky fingers.

“Here, let me.” Delicate hands swatted the shaking ones away and immediately went to work despite the spilled energon and grit that made an unpleasant slurry that had to be wiped away. It was more important to cover the major leaks, the giant hole of torn metal would need a real medic and not the first-aid kit they had on them.

The howling was reverberating through the building now, those things rattling at the shut entrance where they could no doubt smell where the two Autobots and their bleeding wounds had scrambled in.

“Mirage--”

“Shh, I know.”

The sound was heavy, the howls pushing their way into the processor, into the spark. It was a deep, primal sound and it had the spy shivering. Haunting and hunting and calling all at once. Endless and ancient and coming from the dark--timeless and forever. From without and within, the howls their own and of those who came before when there were no cities. No Towers. No war.

Hound’s hand on his shoulder drew him back from the strange space his thoughts had fallen into, and he found them both in darkness. Hound had turned off the emergency lantern. 

In the darkness the glow of their optics locked, and the both knew. If they could survive until dawn they would be safe, they could call backup to come fetch them. 

If.

Outside the howls echoed, crawling through the dark and into their sparks where their own howls were waiting to break free.


	2. Jagged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Death. Body horror.
> 
> Less spooky and more eerie.

The War had been over for some time, a stable peace had found the people of Cybertron at last and they had begun rebuilding. Iacon was first, which was no surprise, but it was when the reconstruction efforts moved on to other cities that those who survived the war met with an odd declaration.

Praxus would remain as it was.

There was protest from some but it was the surviving natives of the city-state itself that argued for the strange decision. The Prime finally agreed, though the confusion remained as to why the Praxians all pushed for the right to do with their home city as they wished. 

And so Praxus remained as it was.

There were a few dozen native Praxians that had survived to the end of the war and one by one they would finish up their personal affairs before setting off for the ruins of their old home. It was a slow process with varying stretches of time between when one would leave and the next would follow.

Smokescreen had been the fourth Praxian to return home, his friends among the Autobots wished him well as he left, all of them exchanging smiles, but no one heard from him after he left. It was the same as the others—no word came from those who returned to Praxus.

Prowl was one of the last to leave, having worked within the fledgling government to make sure it would operate smoothly, and fairly, once high ranking Autobots stepped away. He was often asked what happened to those who had gone to Praxus and his simple answer was that they were ‘setting it right.’ He said Praxus was a jagged wound and they all wished to mend it their way.

When the Autobot tactician finally left he bid his friends a goodbye with a gentle smile, though by now there was a slight unease to those who wished him well. No one had hear from the others, after all. The Prime and Jazz were the most worried, though Prowl assured them both that it was fine—this was what he had been looking forward too since the War had ended.

No one heard from Prowl after that.

Satellite imagery and aerial flybys showed that Praxus was different than what it had been at the end of the War. There was no new infrastructure but the small outcroppings of crystals that had grown wild during the War had sprouted and spread all over the ruined foundations. There were larger clusters with glittering spires and smaller carpets where new crystal spread. The ruins glittered in the dim light of Cybertron’s twilight day.

Perhaps the Praxians that had returned home had set to work rebuilding it in a more natural fashion? It was anyone’s guess but no one could argue that Praxus was beautiful once more, wild and raw as it was now.

Bluestreak was the last. He assured his friends—and there were many who were there to wish him well with worried looks—that everything was right and that he was expected back home. No one could truly stop him though some begged him to reconsider. It didn’t stop the gray Praxian from smiling, waving those who had gathered a final farewell, and transforming to drive off toward the ruined city.

He crossed the still shattered highways that stretched toward home. He was eager to see te others again, eager to put his effort into making Praxus something new and beautiful. The glint of the crystals on the horizon only drove the desire to return to new heights. His spark ached, but he was glad to finally be going home.

When Bluestreak arrived he transformed and carefully stepped around the lines of tiny crystals spreading around the city edges. He was headed for the city center, where the old Helix Gardens had been, where Prowl was no doubt working, so they could be reunited.

The trek was long, and every now and then he would pass someone locked in their work. He saw Barricade—And wasn’t that a surprise! He would have expected him to hide out somewhere less conspicuous than what had been an outdoor market—standing with his sensor wings to the road, looking down at the ground as if brooding.

Smokescreen was nowhere to be seen but Bluestreak assumed he was on the other side of the city center, tending to his own tasks. It didn’t matter, they were both home and things were going to be alright. The ache in his spark flared as he stepped around a wall of iridescent blue crystal, the pain sharp and needle-edged—he would have liked to visit Smokescreen before but there was no time to go see everyone.

Prowl was sitting on a ruined bench, glittering where the pale crystals surrounded him. He was still, they all were, and Bluestreak managed to step forward despite the jagged stab of pain so he could be closer to his old mentor. He just managed to make it to Prowl’s side before he collapsed, resting his head on his mentors thigh.

It was alright now, he was home—they were all home—and there would be no more sorrow over Praxus for them. There was no more need for retribution or justice. Praxus, and its people, were free of all their burdens.

Optimus Prime and Jazz walked through massive labyrinthian crystalline structure that had once been Praxus. It had taken time—too much time thought Jazz—for them to come here and actually see. There had never been lights in Praxus, no communication or trade. Nothing. And as the pair walked they understood why.

“If you want to return...” The Prime’s voice was solemn, filled with an odd grief but there was understanding in it as well. His words, low and supportive, were directed at Jazz who stood staring at what was left of Smokescreen. 

“No. I want to see them.” But he already knew what they’d fine. He remembered Prowl telling him of the ache in the spark, the desire to restore the beauty of his home city. That had been when the tactician had left.

So they made their way through the ‘city.’ They found others, long dead and silent amid the crystals, though none looked troubled despite the bizarre scenes they made.

It was a long walk, the crystals having grown huge with time, faster than should be possible, but free to grow as they pleased without guidance. It was nearly dark, not that the day was very bright, when Jazz first spotted them. Optimus was just behind him and there was only a small hesitation in them both as they approached their old friends.

Prowl sat on a ruined bench and Bluestreak sat on the ground at his feet, head resting on his mentor’s leg. Sprouting from them both, as had been the case with all the other bodies they had found, where vibrant crystals. Blue and sparkling clear, all with an iridescent sheen. Spires seemed to have grown from their core—the crystal casing of their sparks.

Prowl was all but encrusted with pale blue crystals, the largest having sprouted out of the front of his chest, forcing the places open as they reached for the sky. Bluestreak was similar, shining spears having torn through the plating between his sensor wings and spread outward. The seams between their plating were equally split, smaller clusters wedging the metal apart as the thickened with age.

The Prime and his Lieutenant stood in silence, lost in their own thoughts and mourning friends they had lost in such a strange manner. For a long time they simply stood, paying respects to the monument the last Praxians had made of themselves and their city.

It was well into night when Jazz finally stirred, turning to touch the Prime’s arm. Not a word was spoken but they both understood—it was time to go and let them rest. They turned away, making the long trek back through the winding corridors of glittering crystals. This was a tomb, jagged but beautiful.


	3. Hungry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: siphoning/blood drinking/cannibalism. 
> 
> Short but whatevs, that's what I'm decent at.

“Prowl, I’m hungry.”

Prowl paused, looking up from his work though he already knew who was there. Bluestreak was standing in the doorway to his office, expectant though patient. They both knew the song and dance already.

“Very well, I’ll comm. Jazz.”

It was easier now, after so much time—both Prowl and Jazz had adjusted, adapted, despite how disturbed they had initially been. Now all he got from the saboteur was a mild confirmation the comm. went through.

Bluestreak was still waiting, calm but with an unnerving stare, as Prowl finished up his report and shut down his console. He rose and, without a word, the pair of them left and walked down the corridor. 

They passed a few others in the halls, though none of them said a word. Bluestreak was quiet, which meant he was hungry, so they left him be. Prowl couldn’t decide if it was a good or bad thing that those here knew about Bluestreak and his hunger. Perhaps if it weren’t so frequent he and Jazz could have hid it better but that effort had failed rather early after they had found him, vorns ago, in the ruins of Praxus.

He’d been hungry then, too.

The corridors became empty and more barren as they made their way down a ramp and into a lift. Prowl easily took them down to the correct level, leading the way now as he approached the secured door to unlock it. The moment it swooshed open the younger of the pair moved beyond, into the next hall with the tactician on his tail.

Jazz was waiting for them at the end of the hall, already compiling an intelligence report. He worked fast these days, what with the war progressing as it was. And—more importantly—a hungry Bluestreak was a problem.

“Hey Blue,” Jazz chimed, looking up from his datapad with a grin. Prowl knew it was fake, but it fooled most easily enough. He wondered if Bluestreak could smell the lie.

“Gotcha fuel ready, just the way ya like it.”

Bluestreak nodded, saying nothing as he moved past Jazz and through the open cell door, descending upon the crumpled frame sprawled on the floor. There was a soft sound, a would-be hiss from the paralyzed prisoner—it seemed Jazz didn’t want to listen to the pleading this time. 

Bluestreak was already biting open one of the unfortunate Decepticon’s lines, lapping at the energon that spilled free before wrapping his lips around it to let the poor mech bleed out into his mouth. A slow death.

Jazz looked at Prowl, the two of them sharing a quiet, concerned look.

If the war came to an end there would be no more convenient prisoners. Both senior officers contemplated, as they had so often over the vorns sense they found Bluestreak curled up by the empty frames in that bombed out, collapsed building—what would happen when Bluestreak went hungry?


	4. Carve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Torture. Body horror. Cutting?

It hurt. The pain was hot, a heated knife sliced into raw metal, carving shards away to reshape the whole. It was agony and he couldn’t make it stop, couldn’t thrash or struggle—he couldn’t even scream. Not yet.

“You’ll be perfect.”

The voice was confident but he couldn’t see the speaker, he wasn’t even sure how he was hearing them through the hissing and wrenching of protoform as pain flared, bright and keen, before the new wound would became a hot throbbing ache.

Again, the blade dug deep, removing a large chunk of his body and bearing the raw metal to the outside. The air hurt, and still all he could do was quiver.

“My work isn’t cheap, you’ll be the prize of some wealthy Towerling. Hm, what shall we do here to make you stand out?” The voice was clearer now but it did nothing to sooth him, the agony pulsing through him focused suddenly on where a series of small cuts were made near the top of… of what?

The blade came steady, flat in front on both sides, but more of a smooth slide as it moved from left to wright along a curve. More pain, sharp jabs as two elliptical holes were made before more of his living metal was carved away under them, leaving a protrusion down the center.

Then there was another stab and sound burst from him, a static wail that went ignored as the opening was further brutalized—cut to shape.

“Hush now, I have a lot of work yet to finish.”

It went on this way for some time, the endless cutting, shaping, slicing. The carving. He did not know, having no concept of time, how long it truly went on. He knew only that he screamed, his cries ignored as the glowing, heated blade cut away large swaths of him at first, then smaller bits with more care.

He couldn’t even whimper when there was no new pain. Not that it mattered much, by then. His entire body was raw agony, a searing pain that radiated from everywhere and only burned more where the soft movement of air on newly exposed protoform stung.

Mirage, and he knew he was designated Mirage now, shivered where he sat on the speaker’s workbench. He was shining raw metal, new and fresh, but he hurt. Even so, Mirage did not move as he was wiped down, fearing a return to the torture he had known literally all his very short life.

“There! You have a good shape—I think your House will be most pleased.” The speaker was so proud of his work, of the finely crafted, hand-carved frame he had been commissioned to create. 

Mirage was ushered off the bench, wobbly on the new legs that had been carved free from the massive block his frame had originally been, and lead to the other side of the long room. Made to sit on another workbench, he could only shiver and watch as small tools, sticks of metal with oddly shaped ends, were laid out beside him.

“Now,” The speaker said, turning to his current work of art with a gleeful focus that seemed completely oblivious to the suffering of his current project. “It is time for the details. You’ll be so beautiful when you’re finished.”

One of the tools was picked up, a sharp, angled tip at the edge, and the carving began anew.


	5. Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Existential horror.

“It all started with those blasted Autobots!” Starscream’s voice was harsh, bounding back at him from the stark walls of the nearly empty room. He was confined to the half farthest from the door as the other half was… contaminated. 

“I bet it was them that unleashed this—this… THING!” He threw his arms up, muttering more curses under his breath to keep his half of the room from falling into silence. It was the only defense he had left.

Keep talking.

That’s what the note said, written on the wall across from him, next to the door. Skywrap had written it before he’d teleported away to check outside, above the surface. That had been an Earth month ago.

“Maybe that fool, Wheeljack! He has a habit of mucking up science. Idiot--” Starscream was tired, his paint dull as he sat on the floor, glaring at the empty doorway across the room. He could go out there… if he kept making noise, kept talking, he would be okay. Right? Skywarp had come and gone a few times before that last time.

Keep talking.

He’d been muttering, ranting, screaming, and complaining for a month, and when he wasn’t he was tapping his fingers on the floor or wall to make some sound other than the static hum his systems made. For some reason that sort of involuntary sound didn’t count.

It as maddening.

“Stupid Autobots. I hope at least one of them is stuck in their hideous ship like this.” He doubted it, the Autobots had been silent to the point the Decepticons had been able to attack quite a few energy sources without their interference. It was only after that things had gotten...odd.

At the moment it didn’t matter, Starscream was stuck with just himself for company in only half a room and he was out of energon. Just his luck.

He regarded the door again and the horrific lack of sound coming from that end of the room and beyond. The ocean outside the ship was silent, no sound of strange Earth animals or water could be heard. The Victory itself was also silent, no creaking metal or dripping leaks. No murmur, no hum…

Starscream started reciting old poetry from the Golden age, focusing on remembering more and more of it as he carefully stepped into the wall of silence. Immediately the sound of his own systems seemed to vanish save for his rasping voice. The click of his steps were muffled, the sound barely penetrating the silences as he walked along the dark corridor. 

The lights were still working, though he couldn’t hear the engines or any other sign of power. The seeker made his way toward the lift, intent on leaving the Victory. Skywarp and collected all the spare energon before he left but now there was none and Starscream’s power levels were running low.

His words switched to something easier to babble, this time in the form of self arguments while he checked the ship. No one was around, unless you counted the still frames, online but unmoving, that sat here or there or sprawled on the floor. Thundercracker sat, frozen, at his the surveillance monitor and Starscream had to step over Megatron, who was staring at the ceiling from his plan on the floor with lit but unseeing optics.

Creepy.

“And then I would lure the Prime into a false sense of security--” He continued on, trying not to let the oppressive quiet get to him, making his way up and out of the silent, though still operational vessel. It was utterly jarring, moving on the left without hearing it. Even when it opened to the bright blue of Earth’s sky there was no sound but his own strained voice. No waves, no wind…

“And after I crush those self righteous fools I’ll return to Cybertron--” Starscream flared his wings before stepping off and transformed, feeling the burst of speed as he soared into the silent sky. There was no roar that a jet should have in its wake. He kept on his muttering as he flew toward land. If the rest of Earth was this way, and he suspected it was, he would have his pick of energy.

He just had to stay online and keep talking, or the silence would take him.


	6. Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Bodyhorror. I am garbage with tags I swear
> 
> Not the best chapter, too similar to the Praxus one but I never claimed to be super creative. At least no one is dead this time around?

There was something in the woods, or so the humans said, and the lot of them kept away. Curses and creatures, evil and malevolent forces—silly things for metal aliens to put any stock in.

Even so, despite the warnings from their human friends, Hound often drove out to the dense forest on the far side of Mount St. Hilary. There the trees grew tall and thick and moss and ferns blanketed the forest floor. It was in those shadows Hound had wandered, gone from the Ark for a week to enjoy the beauty despite whatever horrors the humans claimed to be there.

And he would return, again and again, only to come back to the ship changed.

At first no one noticed, not even their human friends. Hound was quieter, calm as he steady watched everyone. It wasn’t unusual, and things carried on as they always had before the scout’s camping trips had taken him to the spooky woods on the other side of the volcano.

But the more observant among the Autobots began to see. Small changes, nothing on their own, accumulated into something more drastic. The quiet watchfulness became almost predatory. Calculating. But still, Hound did nothing. He became more aloof, something others did notice more than anything else, and he could be found lingering outside the ship on most evenings.

‘Watching the night.’ He’d called it, but those who saw—who suspected—knew better.

More and more time was spent in the woods. Hound would eventually return to base, on foot, covered in mud, both wet and dry, and looking worn.

The others began to express worry.

Hound dismissed their concern, offering cool, distant smiles as his optics watched them as if they were something unknown to him—strangers he only distantly knew. He claimed to simply spend his time in that forest enjoying the dim atmosphere, the richness of Earth’s life. The humans avoided him entirely.

“He won’t come back one of these days.” Sparkplug said, having been staring up at Prowl for the last five minutes without a word. “The woods have him now.” 

When asked to elaborate all the man could do was offer a helpless gesture and some vague explanation about the woods being alive. About them keeping what was theirs. Well of course the woods were alive, they were a collection of flora and fauna! But there was some distinction here the Autobots couldn’t comprehend.

Hound’s absences grew longer. It became a problem; he was needed for their efforts against the Decepticons, and it was made known he had to be available more often. He only nodded but his behavior remained the same.

One day he didn’t return at all.

A team was sent out to find him, a group of four to search the woods. The darkness under the trees was eerie, a cool mist only added to the strange scenery as they spread out to look for their wayward comrade. Many tracks were found and it turned out to be surprisingly easy to find Hound. 

“How is that possible?” Jazz had come out to search, having been watching the strange change in the scout. He didn’t know what he expected but this certainly wasn’t it.

Hound stood among the trees, unmoving and covered in soft moss, while the thick branches of a tree grew out from within him. His plating, beneath the mud and the green growth, was not gray as would be expected when an entire tree was growing through the body.

But even that made no sense. This was no new tree, and there was no evidence that Hound had become...part of it recently. It was as if they—Hound and his tree—and been there for decades. None of those who had come could make sense of it, nor could any of them get Hound, alive as we clearly was, to respond to them. He simply stood, serene, as if he were right where he was supposed to be.

Unsure what to do, and fairly sure Hound would be okay—okay enough, that was—for the evening, the four Autobots decided to return back to the Ark and decide what to do about the strange situation. It was only after they left the woods, driving along the winding dirt back that would lead them around the mountain, that each one of them felt it.

The lingering tug at the edge of their mind, a compulsion, to turn back and return to the woods.


	7. Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Angsty feelings. Sad ghosts.

The chasm was full of ghosts, lingering for eternity as they waited. They could not escape the confines of their prison, wandering as they did as if unaware of one another. He wondered what they felt—alone, perhaps?--and fretted over them as he tried to wrap his processor around the fact there were dead mechs trapped so close.

Sometimes they wailed, calling for help or weeping in some unknown grief. Their cries echoed and it made his spark ache. Sparks were meant to return to Primus, not linger, trapped, to suffer as these ones did.

But there was nothing he could do.

At times, when it was quiet, he could hear them whispering. Most of them whispered to him, or those near by though they weren’t heard by most. Among the trapped spirits themselves, only rarely did they seem to hear or acknowledge one another.

It seemed like a horrible lonely existence.

With time he grew better at listening to them, when they whispered, but not everything they said made sense. Some were angry and spoke of violence—they made demands or cursed any who could hear their rage and despair. Some muttered in denial, going on and on about meeting with ones they cared for once they were free. Others were softer, kinder, but sad in their acceptance of their fate.

None of them seemed able to get out, even now when he checked on them so often. It had been so long and surely they had been trapped in their gilded prison for longer than he could imagine. He could only wonder why it was this way, who had made it so—their prison was something made. Some one had designed it this way. All shining crystal and golden lattice—

His muses were interrupting as the door slid open and one of his officers strode in to the room. They weren’t senior staff but, he supposed, if he didn’t wish to be interrupted he shouldn’t have been ruminating in his office.

“Prime, Sir, a communique has come in from a neutral encampment; they wish to speak with you.”

“Very well.” Optimus Prime stood from his chair, following the junior communications officer out into the corridor toward the comm. center. The war was getting worse and soon there would be no neutrals left. How long would he last before an assassin, a bomb, a stray blaster shot took him out of this war?

He wondered, not for the first time, when he would become just another ghost trapped in the Matrix.


	8. Spiders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Spidery creepy crawlies.
> 
> Cybertronian spiders have more legs. How many? Too many.

“’Go search this tunnel Sideswipe’ they said--” The warrior in question groused, words sarcastic and full of irritation. “’It’s safe’ they said. Stable my aft!” He fired another blaster shot from behind his cover, part of the collapsed tunnel he’d fallen through, at the snarling, hissing, rattling thing down the passageway. “Me and Perceptor are going to have words.”

The thing, all spindly, spear-tipped legs and glittering optics in the beams of his headlights, shrieked as his shot severed one of the too-many limbs. It skittered away, gouging holes into the ancient, rust covered walls, as he scampered farther down the tunnel and around a corner. It moved horrifically fast for something twice Sideswipe’s height. He waited until the hissing and the ticktapping of it’s sharp legs was well out of audial range.

Creepy thing.

Sideswipe shivered, his plating rattling as it rippled across his substructure before settling down flat. That thing had too many moving parts. Still, now that it had run off he could concentrate on his current stuck-in-a-tunnel state. His comms were no use down here. They had barely worked in the tunnel he was supposed to be in, but down here? All he got was the low feedback static of nothingness. Fantastic.

With the path behind him blocked by debris there was only one way to go, and while he wasn’t keen on following after Legs Mcgee, there wasn’t much choice. At least the creature had been injured and would, hopefully, keep away.

So Sideswipe set off, moving cautiously through the dark passage, alert with his weapon at the ready. There was processed energon on the ground, indicating where his creepy friend had fled, and he made a point of being loud as he followed the trail. Hopefully there would be an exit somewhere, a way to crawl up a layer or, if he was very lucky, an exit directly to the surface.

Doubtful, but stranger things had happened.

He wandered for a while, making sure he could backtrack by not taking too many turns. The energon trail had petered out and vanished, which wasn’t comforting in the least, but he continued on in hopes of finding something that could remove him from the predicament entirely. 

“Well nuts n’ bolts.” He’d found the end of the main tunnel, another wall of collapsed debris, and turned to begin making his way back. He’d passed some other passages and figured he’d search down each one with methodical care. For all the gossip back on base of him being a bit absent minded, he could use his processor when it was important! For important things, like surviving. 

The first tunnel didn’t go far before it opened up into a bottomless pit, the beams from his headlights couldn’t reach the bottom, or even the sides, of the gaping hole and it left Sideswipe with a tingly chill under his plating. A creepy sensation of looking into something he definitely shouldn’t be. In the heavy silence he could have sworn he heard something down there… Nah, probably just his imagination. He turned back.

The next tunnel went on for some ways without doors of any kind that he could see. They may have simply been rusted over but it still gave the place an odd, menacing feel. Stupid unstable tunnels. Stupid Perceptor. His thoughts wandered as he did, the featureless corridor still and undisturbed until his muffled footfalls marred the dust as he moved along. He could see the end, a flat wall, when a sudden jolt of something had him stopping in his tracks. 

Sideswipe didn’t move, unsure of what it was that had caught his attention other than some instinctual reaction. There was no sound as he strained to listen, turning up the sensitivity of his audials to try and catch something. Anything. The unpleasant chill under his plating had returned and he wondered if that thing was watching him from somewhere, hidden despite it’s size.

There was a sudden pinch at his ankle joint and he lurched to the side with a startled yelp he’d never admit to making. Looking down there was a tiny...thing—it looked suspiciously like the big creepy thing—gnawing on the edge of his plating. It was an easy thing to kick the menace off and a single shot ended its tiny existence just was easily.

“Uuhg!” He turned back the way he’d come, heading back towards the main tunnel, now that the creepy-crawly chill from seeing all those legs had returned. “I gotta get out of here.”

The return stroll was just as silent and uneventful as it had been during his exploration and Sideswipe wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. The silence grated on him and the unpleasant chill had yet to dissipate despite any lack of stimuli. Maybe he was going crazy? Jazz had mentioned something like that once, about lack of stimuli when it was quiet and dark. 

At least he wasn’t in total darkness.

He’d almost made it back to where he’d fallen through the ceiling when the sudden jolt of alarm hit him again. This time, however, there was a tiny little monster, like the one he’d shot earlier, skittering back and forth over the fallen rubble. All its little sharp legs made the tiniest tinking as he moved, darting from here to there—it was fraggin’ creepy! 

Sideswipe swore, if he imagined it, he could feel the tiny pinpricks of its too-many legs skittering and running all over him. He did the only sensible thing a bot would do in that situation and shot it—with vindictive glee—as he had the other. That was that.

Or was it?

He crept closer to where the remains of the little thing were, scowling at it as he looked over the rubble as best he could. Even with his headlights, the heavy shadows made it hard to see in the cracks and crevices—he really hoped there weren’t more.

That creepy chill was still there, skittering under his plating and over his wires. Sidewipe shuddered with another ripple of plating, purging the idea from his mind. There were no creepy critters crawling inside of him!

“I really need to get out of here. I’m going crazy. Fraggin’ creepy crawlies--”

No longer feeling the desire to explore and hope for an alternate exit, Sideswipe began to carefully remove the rubble. Maybe he could dig his way back up? As he moved debris, loud in the quiet space, he’d feel the skittering, the creepy chill, and hoped it was just his imagination. 

He chose to ignore the soft tinktinking of tiny legs on metal he’d occasionally hear around him.

It wasn’t until later, when a rescue team was digging down into the collapsed tunnel in search of their lost Autobot, that they heard screaming.


	9. Harvest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: cannibalism

There was a combined sense of anticipation, excitement, and wariness as the harvest approached. The war had ended some time ago and now, with Cybertron restored, new hotspots would light up every few vorns. Many claimed it was Primus bolstering the disparaging population of his children. There were many things claimed about the harvest in relation to Primus.

Skywarp didn’t care all that much, the celebrations surrounding the harvest were fun and all but the event itself wasn’t and he hated being roped into ‘helping.’ He suspected Thundercracker was less irritated by the entire ordeal. Starscream was vocal about his wanting to be anywhere but the new hotspot.

Too bad, the three of them had to help. Anyone who had been involved in the war, even more so in command, was obligated to assist.

So the three of them were out on the edge of the field. Prowl, the Autobot, was not far off, apparently saddled with harvest duty as well, as was that paranoid one. The security bot.

Whatever.

Skywarp was too busy looking at the dazzling field of sparks sitting in the gooey, metallic ground and thanking Primus that, unlike the Autobots and other ground-based assistants, he could hover over over the field without getting all...gunky.

The priests were droning on, their prayers filtering over him but ignored while he and his trinemates took the last few moments to apply a thick, protective polish to their arms—no use in letting the warm metal tarnish their paint or damage anything while they were reaching in to help the new protoforms free. Across the field it looked like Prowl was helping Red Alert do the same, only all over. 

Hah, stupid ground pounders. They were going to be nasty once the harvest was over.

With the last prayer the ‘volunteers’ set off. The three seekers easily glided over the field together before branching out and hovering down low. Thundercracker was the first to find a mobile protoform, reaching down to grab a slippery arm and tug to help the new Cybertronian free itself.

Starscream had flown onward while Skywarp turned and came down to slowly survey another section. Some of the protoforms didn’t need assistance, clambering there way free of the soft metal on their own while others flailed, stuck and confused. The latter were the reason for all the help during the harvest.

Coming down near the warm surface Skywarp spotted what looked like some kind of car, because of course he’d find a dust munching grounder, that was all but a head and arm above the surface. With a sigh he reached down, scooping his arm into the thick, soft metal and getting a firm hold on the solid, hot frame of the newly forged.

The wriggling protoform bleated out a paniced cry, all static and wordless, before biting into the armor of the seekers arm. He hissed but didn’t react other than to tug and pull, using his other hand once he had more to hold on to—they always bit. Always.

The startled yowl from Red Alert some distance away was affirmation of that.

Once the newly was free and left to wander toward those gathered at the edge of the field, the seeker set out for the next. It did not take long, another ground-frame though far less stuck was pulled free--and this one did not bite him!

Starscream was complaining about the biting. Apparently the three he’d pulled out had all bitten him. Skywarp looked to Thundercracker, who was peering far to the east where Starscream was struggling to pull out a pair of twin flight-frames. Who were also getting a bit bity.

The blue seeker turned, making optic contact with Skywarp, and the decision was made in that single, silent moment of understanding. They moved closer to the Autobots, taking care as they helped whatever new protoform they could find—they left Starscream to his struggles.

“Prowl! They keep biting me--”

“Everyone get’s bitten at lest once, you’ll be fine.”

Everyone did get bit at least once, Skywarp was sporting a few as was Thundercracker. They were both silence as the skirted past the Praxian as he worked on calming his excitable comrade. The seekers just wanted to get as far away from the fallout they new was coming.

Already there was slightly hysterical ranting from where they’d left Starscream.

Skywarp moved westward along the field and was currently struggling to haul a clumsily panicing convoy of some sort of of the steaming metallic mush when the shriek he’d been waiting for sounded across the field. He refused to look up, even as the enraged screaming became more paniced. Starscream was calling for him—for Thundercracker too—but all he could do was pull on the protoform as they kicked their big legs free.

The Autobots had gone silent not to far away.

No one looked up as the shrieking and screaming became frantic—they all knew. Starscream’s wailing became unintelligible, garbled, and wet before silencing entirely.

And Skywarp was busy with another protoform, a small flyer that saw fit to gnaw into his arm. That was fine, it wasn’t like a harvest had ever taken more than one back to the well.

Many said the harvest was a gift from Primus, bringing new children to repopulate their world. Many said the harvest also took, taking one spark that had hurt their world and exchanging it for something new.


	10. Edge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: psychological horror?
> 
> I really don't know what I'm doing most of the time.  
Also, I was too lazy to proofread this chapter. Rip.

The Hole, as it became known, appeared just beyond the outskirts of Uraya without explanation. The panic it caused was immediate, being as large and sudden as it was, but nothing seemed to happen beyond it simply existing. The media speculated on the strange phenomenon, having little to go on but wild theories.

A science team was sent out to investigate once security forces had deemed no immediate threat. Perceptor had been eager to join the team and was now peering down into what seemed like a bottomless pit. A perfectly circular hole that plunged down deep into Cybertron itself.

He walked along the edge, perfectly stable and dropping down at a right angle, as he considered the possibilities. It hadn’t been made by any construction equipment they could imagine, there was no evidence of heated metal—the entire thing was a clean cut, like a giant cutter had punched it free. Even then, there was no stress along the edge to indicate tearing or pressure.

It was as if the metal that was missing had been swallowed up in a void.

He came to a stop and looked down into the darkness again, seeing no bottom and wondering just how deep it went. Surely not forever, or another hole would have been found across the planet. Still… Staring down into the darkness he felt that there was no bottom, no end. Which was silly.

It was just a big hole.

A big, creepy, mysteriously appearing hole that was far too large to have just shown up.

Perceptor went about his day, taking measurements and readings to compare with the others—they had send a wide variety of researchers here, hoping the broad fields would help pinpoint the cause and any effects, other than there being a giant hole in their planet, that might arise. Of course nothing came of it the first day and all the researches berthed down for recharge.

There Hole was there, stretching out before him like a dark sea, and there were whispers. The soft wisps of language tumbling over itself in many streams like rolling smoke—the words seemed to seep over the edge, beckoning. From the deep darkness below a low, discordant moaning, akin to twisting metal, echoed up to underlay the almost-decipherable whispering. 

Slowly, he approached the edge, the voiceless voices spilling up and out of the yawning pit to flow over him without sensation, yet somehow cold. The darkness below groaned again, touching something deep, calling out to the surface above.

Perceptor woke to find the little encampment the security forces and research team had erected noisily starting the day. He thought little of his dream as he left his temporary shelter to join them, drinking his energon and going discussing with his colleges. 

Today was more exploration based, the researches unable to fly carefully documenting the edge of the Hole while those who could fly delved down into the dark. A drone was sent deeper—for safety reasons.

All they found was a hole.

The only interesting thing that happened was the drone, flying down into the depths. It did not find the bottom, strange electromagnetic internecine scrambling its readings entirely, until it was withdrawn. So far that incident had been the only thing of interest they had found and it was while they were all discussing it at their evening energon that Perceptor heard the sound again.

A thin rasping, whispering from outside the group, and his head turned to look back at the looming shadow that marked the edge of the Hole. The sound throbbed, quiet as it was, spilling out towards him in the dim light—calling.

“Hey--”A hand on his shoulder jolts him from the distraction, he looks back to find Mainframe looking at him with concern. “You okay?”

It took him a moment to compose himself, unsure of just what had happened. There was no sound now, no whispers underlain with something else, just the sounds of camp and the concerned face of the coder in charge of maintaining the encampments various systems.

“Yes, quiet. Excuse me.” And things moved on as they should. It was normal, despite the bizarre interruption, and the night came as it had before.

The moaning howled, a deep, low sound that came from the Hole. The cascading whispered were frantic, filled with excitement as they slipped and tumbled over each other. Louder and louder, the sounds rolled up over the edge as he stepped near, leaning over to peer down into the dark. There was nothing, nothing down there but the calling and crawling sound roiling up like some turbulent sea.

There was no sky, only a bleak horizon that held nothing—the Hole was the sole feature of this world, were the eerie sound of all things sank to the bottomless bottom. He dared not speak, knowing that his words would be pulled down too, lost in the endless dark. It would drag him down too, into this other world, and he’d never get out—he’d become another whisper.

The next day came, though he remembered the dream this time. The Hole seemed more ominous than it had before, if only to him. The silence from within was wrong, he knew it should be moaning, but there was nothing as he and the others complied data and brainstormed on what to do next. It was only when they were all silent for too long, lost in their work, that Perceptor though he heard a whisper.

The dream came that night as well, full of boiling sound and the calling that lingered just at the edge. And the night after that, the sound always becoming louder but never was he able to understand the whispers. It was strange and, as the days wore on, left him disturbed. 

One the eighth day he awoke earlier than usual. He could still hear the sound as he got up from his berth, the low moaning and endless whispers quieted the moment he pushed the plastic flap of his shelter out of the way.

In the silence he looked around and saw the security forces scrambling around, shouting and waking up anyone who had yet to wake on their own. Thinking something had perhaps happened regarding the Hole, Pereceptor walked around the cluster of shelters and out toward the edge. 

But there was no edge.

The Hole was gone, the empty pit that once stretched out like some great crater was full, as if nothing had been missing to begin with. Immediately he knelt down to examine the edge, where he’d known it to be, only to find smooth metal. There was no seam or weld to be seen.

Utterly ridiculous.

He felt hysterical for a moment, but the confused and awe filled bafflement of the other scientists drew him away, proving he was not completely insane.

With the hole gone, and no evidence of it having been their other than their memory and images captured, there was little for them to do. There was no more odd interference for the drones, no strange readings or anatomies—the entire situation had become ludicrous and it left Preceptor even more off kilter.

“I was wondering--” He began, slowly packing up his datapads and other scant belongings. Wheeljack, an engineer with flashing audial fins, was with him—he’d kicked that other scientist, Brainstorm, out when he wouldn’t stop rambling—helping to disassemble the shelter. “Did you happen to record anything from inside that chasm?” 

“Huh?” The engineer was pushing the walls of the shelter together, folding it down so it would fit back into the thin sleeve it fit into for storage. “No. Only sound was just ambient. The wind, us, that kinda thing.”

Well it was worth a shot. He had assumed if any of the others had heard anything they would have mentioned it. “I see. Curious… I suppose we’ll have to look over what we gathered already, seeing as how there is nothing else for us out here.”

The trip back was noisy, everyone discussing their readings—scant few—and theorizing about the entire phenomenon. There was much talk of some quantum hiccup, some accident in space-time, though there had been no readings to suggest such a thing. There was no gravitational warping or abnormal particles present—no off energy readings other than the strange electromagnetics from deep within that scrambled the drones.

Just as it had begun, the Hole ended as a mystery.

It was only after he was home in his domicile that the days chaos left him feeling worn and weary. He put his personal items away and filed his data away for tomorrow, when he and the others would meet to try and suss out some sort of answer, and settled down to rest.

It was quiet here, calm. His own room, his own berth, no strange hole just outside. As he recharge initiated, dragging his consciousness away, he heard whispers calling him and the low, throbbing moan of the Hole—the calling from just below the edge.


	11. Witch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: W I T C H C R A F T! Implied human (robot) sacrifice.
> 
> DIDN'T PROOFREAD THIS EITHER.

Barricade looked over the circle drawn on a flat boulder, the lines and glyphs painted in the energon of some mechanism, and the scattered trinkets often used in ritual magic and summoning. Clearly some dark magic had been performed here. Barricade looked across the circle to where Prowl knelt, examining the broken charms and trinkets on the ground.

“Looks like your lead panned out. This isn’t very old.” Prowl had come to him with reports of something supernatural and unholy and—despite their falling out and general strained relationship and lack of communication, as of late—they were devoted to their family tradition of hunting down such things and putting an end to them.

Prowl’s white fingers carefully pulled something from the dust, a crude little carving in roughly the shape of a mech, and stood to approach his brother. They’d been working together well enough, so long as neither one pushed behind professional interactions.

“It’s sodium. The oxidation on the surface is still thin.—you are correct in that this isn’t old. I don’t imagine they’ve run off too far but this,” He held the tiny doll out and Barricade took it to examine it further. It was crude, lacking features other than the most basic. It was meant for learning.

“But this circle is too...involved for a novice.” He turned the crude doll over his in hand, noting a pair vertical of grooves carved into the back. With a frown he put it into his subspace, turning his attention to the circle itself while Prowl continued looking over the other small bits and bobs.

The energon that had been used was from living lines, either a mechanimal or a mech, and had been put down with clear confidence. A steady had hand made these marks—painted the summoning glyphs—and set the stage for whatever form of summoning had been performed. The crudeness of the doll indicated another, an apprentice, that they had to be wary of as well.

The flick of white door wings drew his attention and he found his brother looking out into the wastes surrounding them. There was a small town near here where Prowl’s information had come from and where they’d been staying—he doubted the more dangerous of their prey was there but perhaps the apprentice might still be in town.

“So it is a witch.” Prowl was murmuring, speaking to himself as he often did while thinking. Barricade didn’t mind too much, even if it could get irritating after a while. They had bigger things to worry about right now and he could put aside his irritations for the duty of hunting down these monsters.

With little more to do, having looked over the entire ritual site, the pair returned to the little town and split up. Prowl went in search of their possible apprentice while Barricade hunted down any information he could on a witch in the wastes. 

There wasn’t much.

The townsmecha were afraid, they knew of the witch but didn’t wish to upset the tainted spark and bring misfortune and curses upon them—it made gathering leads difficult. There were some sightings of a small to medium build mech out in the wastes, alone and usually sporting ‘shiny things,’ but that was the most he could get on was of a description.

It was frustrating, and the general distrust of outsiders didn’t help much either. Still, the people here didn’t seem overly protective of the witch living out in the wilds around them, simply fearful of being ruin down upon themselves.

Given the advanced ritual circle he and his brother had seen, he could understand.

Meeting back up with Prowl at the inn was… unforgettable. But his brother seemed to be ignoring the awkwardness of their working together and simply began relaying information once they were alone in their room. 

An outsider had been seen lingering around town as of late, someone the townsmecha weren’t very familiar with. This stranger would often be gone for days at a time before returning to town—the last time the outsider had been seen was several days before Prowl had gotten his intel and had yet to return.

“Think it’s the apprentice?” Barricade was sitting on the edge of one of the berths, having pulled the sodium doll out to look over it again. There were arms and legs, the very vaguest indications of a face, and the two grooved on the back—he was unsure what those were for as he’d never seem the, before.

Prowl paused, looking up from a map of the surrounding area. The witnesses had said the outsider had always seemed to come back from the south. “Probably. Or another hunter, but I doubt that. Here—”

Barricade put the doll back in his subspace and came over to the table, leaning over where Prowl had pointed out an area south of the town. 

“There are the remains of a crystal forest here, it’s the only place other than a cave that would be decently safe from the acid storms. I found the one who sent in the initial report, some poor merchant who’s on assignment here for a vorn, who claimed to see lights near there on his way into town. Apparently the locals won’t go near there but that isn’t saying much with all the other places they refuse to go.”

The darker of the pair could only nod, considering the location with a frown. A witch—with an apprentice—out there doing Primus knows what.

“Okay.” He’d be on guard, knowing where his strengths lie. He was good in a fight, as was Prowl, but his brother was better at the planning. Barricade would double check their weapons before going out in the morning. “I got a vague description of our witch. Smaller than us but not by much, has ‘shiny’ things which I’m assuming are talismans and charms, and generally keeps away from town.”

“That… isn’t very specific.”

“Nope.”

But it was better than nothing, and at least it would be easy enough to spot someone with shiny charms as suspicious than just any old mech.

The rest of the night as was spent planning and resting, the pair of hunters having long ago become accustomed to the routine of the hunt. When dawn came they were already up and leaving town, weapons loaded and ready, as they headed south through the wastes.

The dead forest was just as it was named, the shattered and fallen remains of an old crystal forest that had died long ago. The broken crystals were pale gray, translucent, and everywhere. Climbing over and around them without injury had slowed the brothers down as they moved southward.

It was late afternoon when they found… a house, or what was supposed to be a house. Chunks of broken, dead crystal stacked haphazardly with a small opening that was supposed to be an entrance. It looked unsound and ready to topple over—the painted symbols, in both energon and mand-made paints, and the long dead substructures of mechanimal heads adorning the opening was all they needed to investigate.

“You go on ahead, I’ll be right behind you.” Prowl had already taken up his spot behind Barricade, his door wings being more sensor rich than his brother, who had been modified more for close quarters combat. 

Barricade drew a firearm from his subspace and moved toward the entrance, alert as he edged up the little bath and into the dark interior. Prowl was behind him, his own firearm drawn and no doubt queuing up his hud with the counter to common magical trappings they might find.

The inside of the ‘house’ was lined with metallic mesh fabric, simple and likely made here, all covered in thick, color pants. It was very colorful, or so Barricade imagines it would be with some light, and might even be beautiful if not for the obvious signs of darker magics. Charms hung from cords and pots and jars of strange substances sat gathered on a shelf—there was enough paraphernalia here to open an occult shop, if such a thing was even legal.

“There’s another door near the back, leads down,” He warned, slowly heading toward it while Prowl did another sweep. There was no berth here and Barricade could only assume it was lower down. Prowl gave the silent go ahead that things were clear and they moved into the next ‘room.’

A tunnel lead down at an angel, the pair of hunters moving with caution as it curved around and back under the above structure. A large, circular was carved out down here, with a pair of doorways covered by colorful tarps, that lead off the main room.

Prowl tapped him on the shoulder, and when he looked, was pointing to the right door. With a nod Barricade slowly moved toward it while his brother broke off to silently approach the door on the left of the room. 

The tarp, a bright red with stripes of either dark blue or black, was pushed aside with ease as Barricade moved into the room, weapon drawn high. There was no one inside but it was immediately clear this was a multiple purpose room. There were shelves stacked with bottles, jars, boxes, and the like alone one wall while the rest of the room had scattered tomes and a sitting space where he found more sodium carvings. These were even more simple—practice pieces—and it was clear that the apprentice spent time here studying.

With a grown he turned to leave, finding Prowl coming out of the other room by pushing an orange and yellow tarp out of the way.

“Anything?”

“No. This room is where they sleep, I found one large berth, some books—but no one is here.” 

“Just great--” Barricade groused, irritated. “This one is full of supplies, the apprentice is garbage at carving. Seems they’ve been practicing in there.”

Prowl only angled his door wings back, irritated as well but saying nothing, and began to look around the large central room. Barricade followed, approaching the center where another circle, painted in some dark paint, had been drawn recently. The glyphs were clear here, though he could see the few the apprentice had drawn as well. They were precise but seemed to lack the same confident ease as the rest.

What were they up to?

“Barricade.” Prowl was over near the wall, looking at what appeared to be an alter of some kind. There were open pots sitting on a low table of roughly cut crystal, with various bits of carved substructure struts from some...thing—he couldn’t tell if it was mechanimal or mech in origin—placed with care around them. In the center was a tall stand of twisted metal with a pair of flat, vertical slats sticking out towards the front.

Ah—the doll.

“Here.” Barricade approached while his bother moved out of the way, watching him with a puzzled expression as the sodium doll was pulled from his sub space and the slots in its back fit the metal slats with eat. He stepped back, once making sure the soft metal of the doll held, and looked at the strange scene. Like this, it almost looked like a Praxian.

Something popped and sizzled, a flash of light from one of the glyphs on the alter lit up with sparks and he backed away. Prowl, however, stepped forward and jabbed two fingers into one of the pots of oddly colored liquid—which turned out to be some sort of oil—and wrote something with it at the base holding up the little doll.

Barricade froze, confused, at the sudden heavy sensation in his limbs. They wouldn’t move, his arms falling to his sides, and his firearm clattering to the floor and all he could do was star forward, at Prowl, who was still fiddling with things on the alter.

He would have thought his brother was working on reversing the effect if it weren’t for the strange heaviness becoming stronger.

And the sound of a tarp moving from somewhere out of his line of sight—Prowl had said that room was empty… 

“The most important right is cuttin’ loose what binds us. To be free ya gotta sacrifice what ties ya down.”

While Prowl was busy doing whatever it was he was doing, Barricade could only stand there and watch as a wild figure walked around him, all curves and shiny things. There was braided wire wrapped around stubby audial horns, hanging down with beads and small charms which caught the light, shining back the vibrant blue glow of an optic band. More of the home-made paints were draw over his frame, painting symbols of power and decoration.

The Witch.

“My lil’ Prowler is such a good student--” The witch turned away, sauntering over to where Prowl had stopped strengthening the binding that held his brother in place. Claws digits dipped into one of the pots only to slide with ease over the white plating, drawing dark things that Barricade didn’t want to consider.

The intel Prowl had brought, the summoning circle—summing Barricade, it seemed—the little doll left in his care…

Prowl was always the better planner.

“Now~” The which smiled, dazzling and far too friendly for some wicked beast. “Free yaself, Prowl. To open the gates requires energon, ya know what to do.” The witch stepped back and held out a blade. Prowl was slow at first, hesitating a moment before he took the hand.

They both turned to Barricade, still unable to move and trapped in his frame, and approached with wicked intent.


	12. Teeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Cannibalism. Death mention and implied.
> 
> A Prequel to chapter 3. Hungry

“Another one was found deactivated—the last two were in medibay so it was easy to cover but…” Prowl looked troubled, sitting in dark with only the glow of his console illuminating him where he sat, slumped in his chair. He knew Jazz would never tell a soul. 

“But we have to do somethin’, yeah.” Jazz was no better, leaning his hip against the side of the desk with his arms crossed over his bumper. He looked just as troubled, if not more so.

Two—no, three—injured Autobots had been found dead in the medibay. Not too strange, given the injured didn’t always recover, but the neat semi-circles of jagged little holes—of teeth marks—made it impossible to simply claim death due to injuries sustained in battle. Not only had they been drained of fluids but chunks had been bitten out of their frames. So far Ratchet was the only other one in the know but he’d been quiet stern—upset—with both of them.

Something had to be done. Not just to appease Ratchet and keep their soldiers alive, but because the two senior officers weren’t very keen on letting those sorts of deaths continue among their own forces.

The pair lapsed into silence, the low hum of the console their only company, as they considered their options. 

“I got an idea.” Jazz was quiet as he spoke, the light of his visor flickering down as he seemed to rethink it before he nodded. He didn’t look at his lover as he carefully laid out what he’d been thinking. He knew there would be problems but that’s what he had Prowl for, right?

“Prime will not like that idea.” Prowl pointed out, though he hadn’t dismissed the idea either.

“Doubt it, but he don’t know everything we do. He don’t wanna know everything we do.” Which was also true. Optimus Prime understood that unpleasant things had to happen sometimes and generally left his two trusted officers to their own devices, confident they could keep themselves from going too far over the line of morality.

He was generally correct—but some things…

“Look, all I’m saying is it’s either us or them.”

So they moved ahead with Jazz’s idea. 

Down in the lowest levels of the brig, where SpecOps interrogated and kept their prisoners of interest, a Decepticon grunt was given a nasty taste of Jazz. The poor soldier was currently flailing under the effects of a virus, his movements twitchy and weak, while being dragged into a cell at the far end of the corridor. 

“Geett-t-t-t b-b-benttch Auto-A-Auto-Autshhh--” His attempts at backtalk were a mess, a discordant sputtering of digital noise as he was left in the empty cell. The door remained open and the Autobot officer stood just outside, in the hall, waiting.

Fighting the virus, and failing miserably, the captured soldier had no way to tell exactly how much time he spent there. It felt like a small eternity, frozen, as he was bogged down by the virus that left him mostly immobile but still online. He didn’t notice the footsteps, it was only the added glow of optics, two new sets, that forced him to pay attention to the world outside his splintered processor. 

Another officer, the tactician with the sensor wings, stood in the hall with another of similar build but in darker colors. He couldn’t understand their worse, the virus having shredded half of the language software he needed to make sense of whatever was said. 

All he he comprehend was the other frame, the unknown one, coming toward him, kneeling beside him, and the predatory focus in overbright optics as they leaned over and opened their mouth. The Decepticon caught sight of teeth, too many and far too sharp, lined up in far too many rows before the white hot agony of having part of his armor bitten into and torn free.

He screamed.

Beyond the monster gnawing into him he could see the two Autobots flinch, but neither looked away.


	13. Veil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: ghosts or something
> 
> Not super scary, just a lil spooky!
> 
> Also proof reading is for the awake.

“Jazz!”

The aforementioned bot paused as he walked by the door, leaning to the side to peek in at the small youngling sitting in the middle of a berth that was not his own. It was wholly ridiculous and Prowl, also in the room though seated at the desk, had to bite back a smile.

“Jazz~ Prowl won’t tell me why you wear that visor. He said you have pretty optics but if you have optics why do you need a visor? Does no one else think your optics are pretty? Or are they too pretty? Can I see your pretty optics too?” Prowl’s almost smile instantly became a flustered look of consternation—Bluestreak was oblivious.

“Bluestreak...” Prowl began, trying to think of a quick way around the topic.

Jazz only smiled and slid into the room, making his way over to plop down on the floor beside the berth so he could look up at the curious, if untactful, youngling he and Prowl had taken in. 

Prowl still seemed alarmed but Jazz sent him a soothing ping—all was well.

“So,” Jazz began, sitting facing the berth so he could fold his arms on the edge. “Y’know how I sometimes have to sneak into bad and scary places to keep us safe?” He waited for Bluestreak to nod before continuing. “Well, there are bad and scary things in those places.”

“Like monsters?”

“Exactly! Monsters, and ghosts, and demons. Real scary stuff. This--” And here dark fingers tapped on the sturdy blue crystal. “Hides ‘em all so I can’t see. They can’t hurt anyone who can’t see ‘em.”

Bluestreak scooted a bit closer with a tiny frown, leaning forward as if he could understand how the blue optic band worked. “But how do you see them? I don’t see any monsters--” He pulled back to turn to a much calmer, if someone stiff, Prowl. “Can you see monsters, Prowl?”

Prowl looked perplexed but answered after a moment of staring at his tiny charge. “No, Bluestreak. I have never seen, nor do I expect to see, monsters.”

“Oh… Can Jazz see monsters because of his pretty optics?” It took a great deal of willpower for Prowl not to hide his face in his hands, but Bluestreak had already turned back to Jazz who was all amusement. “Can I see? Pleeease?”

Jazz looked to Prowl for a moment before returning his gaze to the curious youngling, indulging him by powering down and retracting his visor. He looked up at Bluestreak with naked optics, keeping his gaze locked steady on the awe filled expression that bloomed there.

“Oh wow! They’re… they…” The little Praxian struggled, lifting his little hands to cup the saboteurs face and turn him this way and that way, knowing Jazz would comply. “They’re pretty! But I can’t tell what color they are. Gold—or amber? But so...shiny—glowy.” 

“Well I’m glad ya think so, Blue. And I’m glad Prowl does too.” He was still smiling, glancing to Prowl just long enough for the tactician to catch the smallest hint of stress around the edge of those naked optics. 

“Bluestreak, now that you’ve seen Jazz’s very pretty monster-seeing optics, why don’t you go and play with Bumblebee? Jazz and I have to discuss a bit of work. Remember what I told you about our work?” Prowl was gently, turning his attention to his charge while Jazz sat where he was on the floor, nonchalant as far as anyone could tell.

“That it has to be secret or the bad Decepticons might hurt people.” The youngling said it like a pledge, clearly having been told, and recited, the statement often enough.

Prowl simply nodded.

After another long moment of Bluestreak appreciating one of his new caretaker’s optics, he slid off the berth and scurried away, little sensor panels fluttering with excitement.

“You are aware he’s going to tell everyone you can see monsters.” It was a statement of fact, Prowl new just as well as Jazz that Bluestreak would spread this information with due haste. 

Jazz snickered. “Yeah well, it’ll be the wilder of the rumors about lil ol’ me. One of the least believable too.” He turned to peer at his lover with those molten optics of his for a long moment before his visor slid down and flickered to a vibrant blue.

They were both silent for a long moment, making sure Bluestreak was truly gone.

“What did you see?”

Jazz was quiet for a long moment, climbing up off the floor to flop onto the berth and stare up at the ceiling. 

“Jazz?” Prowl sounded worried.

“Ghosts. Torn up, broken ghosts. Two of ‘em.” His head turned to catch Prowls attention but the taciturn mech was already focused on him. “Praxian. Real sad and angry. They were clawin’ at Blue.”

More silence followed as Prowl took that in, understanding immediately. Bluestreaks creators wanted him, missed him no doubt. If they could they would drag him beyond the veil into the realm of the lost dead—he couldn’t bear the thought.

“Jazz--”

“He can’t see ‘em Prowler. They can’t get to him unless he knows they’re there—it’ll be fine. Don’t worry, I’ll keep an optic on Blue.”

Prowl sincerely hoped so.


	14. Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Nothing really. Vague descriptions of battle and vague existential horror?

When the Autobots and Decepticons returned to Cybertron they mostly found what they expected. The world had been left with a sparse population for millions of Earth years, the planet was desolate and had an eerie quiet that accompanied all things abandoned. Bathed in the cool, pale light of Cybertron’s moons their home seemed alien—displaying a liminal quality that no one could quite pin down.

The two factions scrambled to reestablish contact, to set up a stronghold for their forces, meager as they were now, and prepare for the continuation of their endless war.

Megatron called for Shockwave.

Optimus Prime reached out to Elita One.

But no answer came to either.

No one could imagine that there would be no one left, regardless, each side set out to where those they had left on their desorlate home had been stationed. 

Under the sickly pale light of the two moons, the warring parties stumbled upon a battle. The Rainmakers soared above Elita One and her team, the lot of them taking cover as they fired at the seekers banking over head. Shockwave was on the far side of the battlefield, operating some sort of large, stationary laser canon.

The Autobots and Decepticons would have been relieved to find things were not as dire as they had believed, if not for the lack of sound. The battle was silent, the flashes of blaster fire nothing more than beams of silent light. The shouting of the Autobot femmes and the roaring of jet engines was utterly absent as the battle raged in the moonlight—a silent film in reality.

They were all faded in color. The energon pink of Elita One was pastel and the overbright paint of the Rainmakers was chalky and pale as they banked a tight turn to fly back around for another pass.

All attempts at contact, from either side witnessing the bizarre display, went unanswered.

The Autobotss and Decepticons stumbled upon a battle. While neither leader had been able to contact their Cybertronian based forces, both Optimus Prime and Megatron were pleased to see their soldiers fighting on.

But confusion soon took them, the battle they witnessed was silent, the pastel flashes of color as the femme Autobots scattered, taking cover as they fired upon the subdued streaks of color that were the Decepticon Rainmakers mad not a sound.

Across the battle field, a chalky lavender Shockwave was shouting silent orders, turning some large cannon at a pale Moonracer as she darted over to assist and equally muted Lancer.

Under the pale light of Cybertron’s moons, the Autobots and Decepticons came upon a battle trapped in the moonlight. An afterimage, forever repeating, to be relived by those trapped in the moment.

Under the pale glow of two moons, the Autobots and Decepticons looked out upon a silent battle, surprised to find those they thought lost still fighting.

Under the sickly light of the watching moons, the Autobots and Decepticons would again and again stumble upon a battle beyond them, both scenes divorced from the reality of one another yet mutually trapped within the liminal glow.


	15. Helpless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Existential dread. Steena. That's right, Steena is a malevolent force and should be a tag in their own right.

Awareness dimmed, as if he were falling into recharge, and all he could do was wonder why. Was it some drug? Had the torment come back or was the relief and trauma simply playing tricks on him? Jazz was smiling as if nothing was amiss. 

Everything went dark.

Barricade tumbled into _that place,_ crashing into waiting, welcoming arms. He shook, the memories coming as a flood only for him to recall every time this had happened before. Jazz was holding him—but hadn’t Jazz just been with him? And there was Crosshairs too. Ah, yes. They did tend to suffer together, didn’t they?

Jazz curled protectively around the other two, trying his best to wrap around them despite being on the smaller side. It didn’t matter that he truly couldn’t, it was the sentiment. Crosshairs and Barricade both seemed to appreciate it, in turn trying to wrap themselves around and each other.

In that timeless place the three of them were held prisoner. There was no escape, no doorway or walls to their not-cell, no where to run or hide—nothing. In the calm here, where they were all together, they tried to enjoy it before the inevitable horrors came again.

What curse had befallen them none could say. Crosshairs had blamed everyone but that was ridiculous—Jazz suspected something more sinister at work. Barricade didn’t know who to blame but he knew it didn’t matter. It was simply how things were for them.

Existence was bleak.

The three of them had agreed upon that point long ago, trapped in this nexus of realities where they would be left to wait for their next bout of suffering.

“Wanna talk about it?” So Jazz remembered all those times too? Barricade shook his head, hiding his face against his—lover? He supposed Jazz was his lover—throat. He could feel their third muttering about missing them both. Why had Crosshairs missed them?

Oh. He hadn’t been in that reality—not involved with them at least.

Sometimes one of them was left behind to wait, existing alone and hoping their companions would return undamaged as soon as possible. It was futile, they always returned trembling and unhappy.

Other times they were all taken, thrown into a new existence to forget their past and live some new horror only to return to that place and remember it all and everything before.

Barricade was always taken—he was a favorite.

“’Kay.” Jazz was so sweet, always trying to support them despite being just as broken by their unending ‘adventures’ as either one of them. 

But they were together now, enjoying the small respite and each other’s company despite the knowledge they shared. The longer they had to relax the more the dread had time to build. It was coming—it was only a matter of time before the cruel deity that conspired against them plucked one of them away and caste them into some new crucible.

Barricade was often the first to go—the first to suffer—but the others often followed soon after. It truly sucked being a favorite, but by the time the world coalesced around him Barricade had forgotten all the times before, locked into his new existence until each chapter of his new life ended.

None of them knew if that was worse, remembering after each little installment, while they waited here for their merciless god to come take them, or if it would be better not to remember until the story ended.

It wasn’t always terrible though. Sometimes it was just strange but not full of hopeless torment.

The time Jazz was a vampire had been surprisingly pleasant, despite the whole...vampire thing.

But they knew, all of them, that too much time had passed already. Barricade was trembling against them, Jazz understood to some degree, their new reality was focused so much on him. Dreading the showers was so little compared to dreading what came next. All the combined memory of each other time—each other story—swirled in his mind.

They could feel _it._ **Them.** The _thing_ that controlled this all hovering nearby. 

“Please--” Barricade whined, clinging to Jazz with enough force to leave marks in silver armor. He could feel arms tighten around his middle—Crosshairs had his arms around them both—as Jazz hugged him a little too tightly. He let himself bask in that temporary comfort. 

Then he was gone, plucked from the pair as the malevolent presence lingering around them moved away. It was never truly gone, that thing that did this to them, but it was away now with Barricade so they were left be.

“Fuck.” Crosshairs so eloquently expressed their shared feelings, curling into Jazz in an attempt to comfort both of them. He’d been alone last time, when both his companions had been taken. After that it was Barricade again. And again. And again. He was afraid to ask, unsure if he wanted to know.

Jazz twisted in their helpless limbo, pulling the other down to snuggle as they floated around in the nothingness between existence and the oblivion they weren’t allowed to reach. “Worrying ain’t going to help us. He’ll be back.”

Barricade always came back. They all did—even after Jazz had died. 

It was only a question of how broken he’d be.


	16. Crypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: implied buried alive. Maybe. 
> 
> Not so much super scary but--

The medic looked out over the neat rows of memorial plaques that marked the once living. The crypt had long ago grown beyond the temple that had originally been above it, the entrance moved over the eons to be nearer more recent monuments as ages past.

Now he walked down the main aisle, passing the organized lines of names. It was different in these times, the frames of the deactivated recycled or melted down into the planets core to be reused by Cybertron’s natural processes.

But the medic was old and he took his time walking down the long aisle until he found one of the paths leading into an older, less accessed area.

He’d lived long, through three separate planetary wars and too many smaller territorial disputes. The old medic wondered just how many of those he once knew were here, either in frame or name only. He certainly hadn’t had contact with someone from so long ago—save one—that he could believe them all passed.

Didn’t matter, he was a relic and would deactivate soon or later.

The longer he walked the older and more familiar the crypt, now more a sprawling catacomb, became. There were some names he recognized as long lost comrades, the ache of their loss dulled with too much time. He kept going, the ware of age the only thing breaking the illusion of crawling back in time.

The tombs—and they were proper tombs now, not simple nameplates—lined up in bulky rows. The organization here was less precise, some sitting above ground, others half curried, while yet some were little more than an entrance to another layer below where grey frames were interred. 

Long ago, the New Temple of Iacon would have stood above them but now there was a massive complex of multiple towers making up a posh neighborhood. The medic wondered how many of those young bots up there knew their city-within-a-city was sitting atop the tombs of long dead.

He finally reached his destination, an old and rarely visited area, and meandered off the main row to move between the wall memorials. There was one he wanted, one in the back near the wall, where the other half of his spark had long been entombed.

It was like so many of the other tombs here, large but somewhat plain—there hadn’t been a lot of interest in grand decor back then, not after they’d all lost so much—but the medic came to visit this place often enough that it was much cleaner than so many of the others.

He’d wager he was the only one around left to visit here on a regular basis.

“Drift.” He sat on the heavy slab, reaching over to scrape off a bit of crawling rust. He made a mental note to bring a brush with him next time for a more thorough cleaning. “I’ve miss you.”

He sat in silence then, waiting. It wasn’t difficult to listen, in the silence underground, and it wasn’t terribly long before a dull thud answered his soft words.

“Were you resting? I’m sorry—didn’t mean to wake you.” The medic shifted, sliding down to lay on his side with his audial against the metal of his lost love’s resting place. There was a low scraping from inside and he smiled..

“Not yet, I can’t risk letting you out. But you remember what you promised me?” There was a dull resonance of gravely static and the semblance of words. Another thud and a painful sounding screech of a disused vocalizer before the muffled voice replied with an agreement. 

Yes, he remembered.

“Good. I’ll be with you soon. I’m getting old—well… older than before. But soon I’ll be with you again.”

Inside there was some plaintive, animalistic sound and the frantic scrabbling of fingers or claws—something scraping in an attempt to be free. It only made the medic frown. He’d never intended them to be separated for so long but he’d been lucky to live longer than he could have ever imagined.

“Soon—I promise.” He knocked gently against the metal separating them, climbing off the tomb with a wistful sigh. “It was good talking to you, Drift. I’ll be seeing you again soon.” Whether he mean it as a visit or as truly reunited he wasn’t sure.

Ratchet turned to leave, giving the tomb—with its desperate sounds from within—a found pat as he slowly headed the long way back.


	17. Trick or Treat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: does Zoltar count as a warning?
> 
> It's just Zoltar. Knock off Zoltar

Smokescreen held the little card, a thin and cheap piece of sheet of metal with an etched message on one side, and considered what to do. This wasn’t the first time he’d held one of these cards, nor was it the first time the card was a Trick card.

He wondered how it had come to this.

Of course he already knew the answer. It was his own fault.

He had found the Trick or Treat machine long ago, early in the war. There had been a bombed out entertainment center not far from base and he’d gone to scope the place out. Soldiers could always use more entertainment and Smokescreen had been hoping for anything not charred to ruin or in pieces that might be salvageable.

He’d found some holovids and game files in one—the only—functional terminal in the place. Several dozen packs of polymer and metallic cards had also found their way into his little stash as he search for anything more substantial. Two undamaged Fullstasis sets and a few new sets of darts made the cut—too bad all the boards were half melted to slag.

What he hadn’t expected to find, least of all intact, was a sort of cabinet game that was half his height sitting on a counter in a back storage room. It was a dark box with backlit bands of orange around a shadowbox containing an ancient looking...thing and a bowl of small multicolored orbs that glowed faintly. He thought they looked like...very old and probably expired goodies.

He was more surprised to find the thing was still powered and he was quick to hit the single button just under the shadowbox.

After a… well, Smokescreen would call it quaint, show of dim flashing light and audio of extremely poor quality, a small metallic card popped out of a small slot near the button. He took the card and found a short message etched into the metal, some slag about positive interactions and future favor.

A fortune.

It wasn’t the most interesting of games but he supposed someone might enjoy it from time to time—if not, he was sure there were some parts in there someone in engineering might like as salvage.

So he took the card, a vague message etched into the flimsy metal spoke of positive interactions in his future, and set to work on figure out how to get this larger-than-expected thing back to base.

He should have left it there.

The hunk of junk never did become much of an entertainment peace for the Autobots. It never worked for anyone other than Smokescreen and over the eons of the thing followed him. Sometimes he took it with him, other times it just… showed up.

It was the fortunes, however, that had become a fixed point in his life. 

While the game itself wasn’t all that special, the Tricks or Treats delivered were far more of a gamble. Most of them were rather benign, vague fortunes that spoke of positive connections or ‘advice’ about how strength is begotten by withstanding the trials of existence.

Most did nothing.

Occasionally, however, the little cards—which never needed to be restocked. Every time he opened up the cabinet to look at the stock it was always full of blanks—said something much more specific. 

The first time it had happened it had been, luckily, a Treat, so when events followed that matched its wording verbatim, well…

Smokescreen had learned to heed what he was given.

But now, as he looked down at his little card, he wondered if things would have turned out differently had he left the pile of scrap back in that complex where he’d found it so long ago. He looked at the card again, despairing at the simple fortune that was now his own, and set it down on the table he kept Trick or Treat set up in his quarters.

He had a battle to prepare for and he knew, this time, he wouldn’t be coming back.


	18. Miasma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: vague horror. smelly smells that smell smelly

“Oh yuck.”

“…...”

“Hrk—You’re tellin’ me.”

The three of them stood around an open access panel in the floor of an abandoned Decepticon base. Mirage was keeping the farthest back, silently glaring at the dark hole while Bumblebee and Jazz knelt down to try and see into the dark.

“It goes down a little ways before turnin’ off there, see?” Jazz was pointing, able to see more accurately in the dark than either of his subordination. He was making a valiant effort to not let the sickly, tangy smell emanating from the access shaft bother him. 

He was failing, if the almost cringe he was fighting was anything to go by.

“We should have a look, I don’t like how this place was left—they didn’t even take their supplies.”

“I will remain up here.” Mirage spoke up, lingering some distance from the smelly hole his commander intended to go spelunking down. He did not mind dirty work when it had to be done but he’d rather not go down there when he could be up here playing sentry. “I will make keep watch.”

Jazz only snickered but left him be, shimming down into the hole with Bumblebee on his tail.

“Uhhgg—it’s even worse down here.”

“Probably some poor spark corroding down here. C’mon Bee.”

The pair set off, the access shaft heading downward for some distance before the ladder running up the entrance bound a floor. The moment Jazz put his pede down he slunk out of the way to make room for the scout

The small corridor was lined with piping and cables, exposed to allow maintenance drones or, when needed, workers in to amend issues. It was dark and Jazz lead them on, the pair moving in the dark, relying on the saboteur’s more advanced sensor suite and night vision to direct and warn them of upcoming danger.

There was none.

The only thing the pair found was the smell of corrosion and spoiled energon. The deeper they went the stronger it became. The sickly tang of energon and the sharp smell of rust was thick, pressing in around them as they moved along. Neither of them said a word, the smell, while unpleasant, wasn’t as concerning as some underlying theme that neither could identify-- a feeling of unease.

There was no reason for it other than some other unpleasant thing but it was not the scent of death. Jazz considered dome toxin, something that would explain the smell that would have to require multiple bodies to create. If so, perhaps he should stop?

But he didn’t, and neither did Bumblebee raise any concerns as they moved, single file, down the long and narrow passage. There was a door at the end, or another access panel, that was partially open to allow a very dim light.

Jazz pushed the panel away and letting in more of the dim light. The smell wafted in, stronger that ever, and the pair scrambled through the now open door and into the wide room beyond, knowing the would find their answer soon.

They both had to know—needed to know—what was the cause of the stench. 

Up above, Mirage waited, standing in the wide hall of the abandoned Decepticon base. The entire place was eerie in that everything was left untouched, as if all personal had simply left without any sort of perpetration or warning.

He paced up and down the hall, keeping his sensors on alert though there was only stillness to greet him. Slowly he walked from one end to the other, closer to that smelly hole his commander had disappeared into. 

Even as he approached he could smell it, that oddly thick smell of decay that, while not strange to soldiers in war, still drew him in despite his disgust. Mirage stepped up to the open access point and knelt down to glower into the dark. Really, he hoped it was only a body rusting away down there and nothing something more troublesome—he hadn’t heard back from them…

Another long, silent wait with only his morbid curiosity about the smell to keep him company had the spy finally sending a ping to Jazz asking for an update. 

It was another long wait without a reply before worry began to creep into the back of his head. As much as he didn’t want to go down and look he knew he would have too—he worried about his friends to much to leave them.

An encrypted message was bundled and sent back to base, appraising them of the situation and his plans, before he climbed down into the hole and down the ladder leading into the dark.

Reaching the floor after a descent climb down he started down the access shaft, having to stoop over in the cramped space as followed the narrow corridor. The smell was stronger down here and he could only hope Jazz and Bumblebee hadn’t passed out because of it, silly as the idea was.

It was a long walk, uncontrollably hunched as he was, and when he finally saw an open door at the end of the long hall spilling in a dim light he’d already forgotten what he’d been so worried about.

He was going to find out what was causing that stench.


	19. Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: Body horror. fear. dread. weird dream mechanics.

Jazz had sad Red Alert had optics everywhere.

Bluestreak thought that was silly, he’d seen Red Alert before! Prowl had introduced him not long after he started living with the older Praxian in Iacon.

Red Alert looked normal, he had two optics, and even if he was always locked up in that creepy room with all the motions he still seemed ordinary enough.

But Jazz had said that Red Alert knew everything that happened on base, he had optics everywhere!

So the youngling crept down the hall, the lights dim as it was well into the off shift, to sneak around corners on his way to the security office. At least he thought this was the way—Prowl had only taken him once.

But there was something wrong with the hall, it seemed far too long as he scurried along as quietly as he could, one small hand along the wall as he tried to make his way. The corridor stretched out forever, or so it seemed, without any cross sections or doors. 

Had he gotten lost?

A large hand came down on his little shoulder.

Bluestreak shrieked.

After a brief moment where the world turn and spun, he found himself being help up and held at arms length by a red and white bot who looked surprisingly like Sideswipe.

Red Alert was looking at him with mild annoyance but mostly confusion.

Oh.

Maybe he did have optics everywhere?

“Bluestreak, right? What are you doing out here so late—you should be in recharge. Does Prowl know you’re wandering the halls?”

“Uhhhm—well, see, Jazz said you have optics everywhere but you only have two optics and I thought maybe you were hiding more optics and I wanted to come see if that was true but I know Prowl would tell me that was ‘perposderouses’ or whatever so I decided to come and see if I could find you and see if you had more optics and I’m sorry I snuck out pleasepleasplease don’t tell Prowl and don’t be mad!”

Red Alert only stared, less irate now and more perplexed as he filtered through the rapid fire flood of words, delivered with more and more panic as the runon sentence continued. Once the youngling was quiet he continued to stare while Bluestreak looked contrite.

Well… at least he’d been honest, right?

Carefully the youngling was set down while the security direction gave him a long, considering look—all the while Bluestreak fidgeted, little doorwings flickering and fluttering.

“Well,” Red Alert finally spoke, putting his hands on his hips and leaning over the still twitchy youngling. “Jazz is absolutely right. I see everything that goes on here. I see everything behind me and beside me. I see all the trouble Jazz, and Sideswipe, and Cliffjumper get up to. In fact, I know Prowl was chasing Jazz around one of the server rooms earlier while you were playing with Bumblebee.”

Bluestreak gasped, peering up at the older bot with wonder. “How? You only have two optics that I can see.”

“Oh I have more--” There was an unpleasant creaking that Bluestreak remembered well from the bombing of… He didn’t finish that thought, but the sound of straining and, finally wrenching, metal had him focus on the older mech. Something was...wrong.

Very wrong.

While Red Alert stood there his plating shifting, creaking as it cracked opened, the seams pulling apart with a sickening crack that made the youngling flinch back. And from between the openings he saw lighrs—blue and red and yellow amber, like Prowls, and even purple and green. 

Optics. Moving—seeing--optics.

“You see, I collect them from mechs wandering where they’re not supposed to be.” Red Alert’s voice had a hallow, tinny quality as he lifted a hand, the plate making up the back of his palm tore open, as there was no natural seam, to display gangling wires. 

“I think yours will fit perfectly here.”

Bluestreak ran.

In a wild panic he scrambled down the hall, the long, dark, unending hall. He could hear Red Alert, with all his creepy optics, behind him—gaining on him—but he was too afraid to look. No matter how hard he ran he didn’t seem to be moving much, either.

He remembered screaming for Prowl. For Jazz. For Ironhide even!

The mounting panic and fear was edged with a looming dread—he knew he couldn’t outrun an adult, especially when he was running so slowly!

Hands grabbed him and he screamed, flailing about as he struggled, the endless hall melting around him as the world shook. He wailed.

Someone was calling his name.

The rattling world solidified around him, he was staring up at a startled, worried Prowl and the looming, concerned visor of Jazz just behind him. Prowl had been shaking him. Shaking him awake.

Oh.

Oh.

“Bluestreak--” Prowl was gentle, easing the small frame up to sit so he could get a better look at him. “Are you alright? You were having a nightmare.” Jazz lingered just out of reach, concerned but silent for now.

“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m sorry Prowl, it was okay but then--” White fingers touched his lips and silenced him, the older Praxian sitting on the berth beside Bluestreak, pulling him close against his side. Already the panicy little thing was settling.

“Slowly. Was it the usual dream or something else?” Prowl’s cool voice was like a balm and Bluestreak slumped down against him with a soft whine.

“Red Alert was gonna take my optics! He broke open all over and was full of optics! Jazz said th--”

“Jazz?” The sabotuer shrank back, hands up, at the sharp look he was given. It was clear, to both Praxians on the berth, that Jazz realized what the problem was. 

Carefully Jazz stepped forward and knelt down, an offered hand soon had a smaller one settled into it. “This about him seein’ all the things I mentioned, right?”

Bluestreak responded with a nod.

“I didn’t mean to scare ya, I only meant he watches all the security cameras—keeps us safe. He doesn’t actually have optics all over his frame.” Jazz was valiantly ignoring the withering stare Prowl was directing his way. “I’m sorry Blue. I’ll take ya to see Red tomorrow, how about that? You can see all his optics are just the security monitors, yeah?”

With the crisis mollified, and Prowl not as peeved as originally thought, the three of them settled in to recharge. Bluestreak was still a bit twitchy so the two adults crammed into the small berth, one on either side, to sandwich their charge between them. 

Safe and sound.

The next day Jazz did take Bluestreak to the security office, as he’d said. The mech Bluestreak had met with Prowl was just as wary as he’d been then but didn’t seem to mind them too much. After a brief explanation of the incident the security officer snickered.

Well, at least he wasn’t so serious all the time.

“No stolen optics in me, I swear.” He even held out his arm for Bluestreak to poke and prod at in a search for hidden optics. The youngling was oblivious to the faint tremor in the large fingers but Jazz noticed and made a mental note not to let the visit linger too long. Red Alert wasn’t as bad as many liked to think but he did become stressed with strangers.

Even youngling strangers.

“Only lots of monitors—see?” Bluestreak looked at the bank of monitors, each one displaying a video feed from different areas of the base.

Satisfied that Bluestreak no longer thought mechs were full of optics he scooped him up with ease, despite the small complaint he got for the sudden action. 

“Well, thanks for assuring him, Red, I appreciate it. I’m sure Blue does too, right?”

“Yes. Thank you Red Alert Sir.”

“I’ll let ya get back to work.”

Red Alert watched them go, and even though Bluestreak had found no evidence of anything weird he didn’t like the feel of the security directors gaze as it followed them out of door.


	20. Abyss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: thalassophobia--fear of deep water, if that freaks you out idk. Possible suicide

He was tired. The war had gone on far longer than he had anticipated, not that he minded the fighting, but he’d rather be fighting someone else than the same enemy for so long. It was exhausting, in all honesty, and the monotony of the status quo was enough to make him weep.

They’d grown so weak. So stale.

He often found his mind wandering to other things when he was fed up of planning, fighting, administrating—all of it was so dull when he’d done it a million times before. He was so tired. 

He’d dream of other things.

The planet they were on, this wet world teeming with organic things, was so different from home. He found himself dreaming of it as of late.

Sometimes he’d dream of the wilderness far from those annoying human settlements—wide open spaces that even he, large as he was compared to so much here, could get lost in.

He dreamed of that cold wasteland of frozen water and rock at the bottom of the planet, the place that scientist had been found long dormant under the ice.

He dreamed of the ocean.

Endless water and darkness, the flow of current and the floating grace of strange, alien seal life. He dreamed of mountains submerged, valleys deeper than any ray of sun or starlight could reach. He dreamed of the echoing cry of whales and other, more mysterious sounds.

Once, he even dreamed his dead frame had been tossed into the sea, uncaring humans discarding him away into the unknown.

H dreamed of deep dark waters full of living things, uncaring of them and their war, hidden where even the humans did not see—could not see. The oceans of Earth were the most interesting place, and that was much considering his general disinterest in all the disgusting organic things that made up this world.

He dreamed of the ocean and its hunger. He dreamed of its welcome.

And so he was here now, walking along the ocean floor in the dark as if searching for a way into his dreams. What was he hoping to find, he did not know. Perhaps some answer to the triteness of all his efforts. 

The darkness of the sea held the answers—he knew.

Darkness was something he knew, something he had become accustomed to long ago. The sort of darkness he’d known early on was similar to the darkness here. It was all around him, thick and impenetrable so that he had to rely on other sensors to map out his path.

A cybertronian could become truly lost in the ocean.

Proximity sensors mapped out the immediate area, the smooth ocean floor and the small outcroppings he wandered around. They picked up the odd fish that would come close enough to the hulking metal shape walking through its home, disturbing the silt as he walked. The larger shape of some hidden behemoth slid by over head, something long and sleek with many arms.

It did not stop him.

The ground dropped off before him, the maw of a trench in the ocean floor just ahead. The figure stopped, standing there and letting his sensors ping down into the chasm. He couldn’t find the bottom nor the opposite wall, only the yawning abyss just before him.

He did not love the ocean but it called to him. His dreams were always so peaceful, free of his monotonous worries. The dark here was colder than the one he knew from early in his functioning, but the blindness was comforting.

Below, waiting in the trench, the ocean called for him in silent whispers.

It _wanted._

Gravity pulled him down as he stepped off the edge, the gentle rush of cold water sliding past his plating was almost soothing. His sensors only picked up the wall behind him, jagged as he opened up and away from him—he wondered how deep it would go.

As he sank he noticed the temperature drop further, the cold water becoming frigid and prickling at his plating, stinging the heated components underneath. The water was heavy this deep, pressing in from all sides and invading between his seams, a cold squeeze building around—inside—him.

Deeper and deeper, into the dark endless sea he sank. Surely it could not go on forever, the cold and pressure building, crushing, as he sank and sank into the dark of his dreams. He was so tired, he did not need some humans to cast him away when he plunged into the sea of own volition. 

Down here he did not need to worry. Down here there was no war, no endless battle without any ground gained. 

Down here the abyss welcomed him.


	21. Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: spooky magic or something. cutting. blood letting. blood drinking. death...ish
> 
> Continuation of chapter 11

Barricade tried to struggle, he truly did, but nothing budged. He couldn’t even flinch as the tip of a wickedly sharp blade bit into the curved metal of his chest plate. It was almost cold as the sharp edge cut through his paint ant just into the upper layer of metal before becoming hot.

Unable to scream, or speak at all, he could only stare forward as he watched—and felt—his brother slowly carve into him. 

Prowl…

How it had come to this he couldn’t fathom—Prowl had always been more diligent in their duties and perhaps that same diligence is what lead him astray. Regardless, Prowl was here now, covered in ritual paint and oil with that visored witch standing behind him, watching.

Pain bloomed as the glyph being carved into him was competed, activating and thrumming with dark magics. He truly wished he could scream, to beg for his brother to see reason! What sort of dark promises that that monster promise to make him turn to...this?!

But he could do nothing, only coil in his own frame, unable to move or defend himself as Prowl’s steady hand continued to shallowly cut glyphs into him. His right pauldron felt like it was melting, different than the pain on his chest, and he could only assume it was magic and not the minor injury itself.

“Good. Keep at it, I’ll get the bowls.” The witch, all bright smiles and heathenry incarnate slide out of view as he walked around them both, behind Barricade’s line of sight.

“Do not fear.” Prowl murmured to him, most of his attention focused on his work carving smaller arcane symbols into a faintly trembling forearm. “You will free me and I will free you. It hurts, I imagine, but it will not be very long.”

Not comforting at all.

The helplessness of his situation, the growing agony of his slowly accumilating wounds—and he wasn’t even bleeding, the wounds were too shallow—and the fact it was his brother incited a rage in him that eclipsed the fear and quite despair.

The witch returned with one large bowl of hammered copper and a smaller bowl of the same, setting them down beside Barricade’s still, frozen form. And then the little monster was at Prowl’s side, murmuring far too sweetly and encouraging him.

He hated that witch.

Prowl moved, having finished with his arms and suddenly stepped around him and the anger abated some as dread sunk its hooks into him. Whatever spell had be cast on him kept him absolutely still except for the faintest tremble, but that was not enough—he knew what was coming.

The pain bit into his door panel, got lances of fire that emanated from the first kiss of the blade and only compounded, building upon itself, with each new sweep of sharp metal. He didn’t even notice when it moved from one panel to the other, his focus obliterated at the flood of new agony before it all suddenly stopped.

The pain was gone.

The glyphs were lit, he could feel the magic swirling over him, creeping beneath his plating and deeper into all that was him.

He saw Prowl come back around, lifting one of his own brother’s arms and slid the blade with ease between transformation seams to sever numerous energon lines. Unable to move on his own Barricade’s arm remained where Prowl left it, over the bowl, to drain.

The witch was speaking again, Prowl was too, but he couldn’t seem to understand their words. The cadence was wrong for spellcraft and he could only surmise it was the effects of the spells already at play.

He continued to bleed.

As Barricade stood there, staring ahead and seeing only what was directly in front of him, he could feel the fluid leaving him. There was a coldness and a foggy sense of confusion as he bled—as he flowed—into the bowl. And he was in the bowl too, the energon was his, from him, of him.

The anger and fear were gone and he was emptying, spilling from himself into the bowl as the little witch instructed his apprentice on how to bind and keep and draw power from what was spilling into a cage.

Hazy, he could see Prowl dipping down to collect living energon from the larger bowl with the smaller—it was strange seeing his usually particular brother uncaring of the mess he made all over his white fingers.

“And the life freed--” Prowl was speaking, he could understand if he concentrated, but he was flowing out of himself into the bowl and some of him was in little one too. Prowl was speaking to it, drinking it. Prowl was doing something to him—the him in the bowl—as the last of him spilled free. 

No longer frozen he flowed, sliding around and round in the bowl, in Prowl as he drank more of him. Existence shrank down to the flow, the rush of movement as his blood, through magic, became power and then, through Prowl, became blood.

And Barricade flowed and was free.

And Prowl was free and powerful.


	22. Buried

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: buried alive. claustrophobia. 
> 
> Prequel to chapter 16. 
> 
> :V short n sweet

“Please--” He pushed, unable to free himself despite his best efforts. It had been days since he’d been locked in here and he was weak from lack of fuel. Still, he pushed and wiggled, banging himself against the walls closed in so close around him—nothing budged.

He was trapped.

He scraped at the heavy metal looming over him, unable to make it so much as shit as he struggled in the tight, dark space. Fists pounded and knees knocked up against the heavy lid that locked him inside his tiny prison. Claustrophobia he’d never had seized him, the panic building as his struggles proved absolutely fruitless.

Drift screamed.

The sound only echoed back at him from the metal just in front of his face. There was no getting out of his tomb, he knew, yet instincts drove him to continue. He banged and clawed and howled, all the while being rewarded with nothing. 

“Ratchet! Let me out—Ratchet!”

Outside he could hear the quite, muffled apologies--Ratchet was still out there or had come to check in on him after he’d been put away. It had been days…

He knew he’d grow weaker in here, without fuel, weaker and quieter in his struggles. Still, instead of conserving his strength, he used what little room he hand to slam the lid to his tomb with all the strength he could muster.

Ratchet was still muffled, apologizing and promising he’d visit. That one day they wouldn’t need to be separated like this.

“Ratchet, please… Just--” His voice dissolved into quiet weeping.

He wouldn’t die in here, no—that was impossible now.

But he wasn’t getting anytime soon.


	23. Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: hell if i know at this point

Sunstreaker was angry.

Sideswipe was left to Ratchet’s healing hands while Sunstreaker chased after the lone seeker that had nearly killed his brother.

Black asphalt lay hot under his tires as he chased the aerial shadow, the smooth human-made road becoming biting, harsh desert sand, rock, and cracked mud from monsoons long past.

Out into the expansive desert the seeker flew, rising out of direct reach but never using his speed to escape. The sun rose high above them both, hot and bright in the oddly pale sky—the blue had seemed to bleed away to something dull as all trace of civilization, human or not, was left behind.

The sun blazed above in the dull blue-gray sky, scorching the flat, cracked earth as Sunstreaker pushed his engine hard. Heat shimmers danced off his hood, his roof, his paint blinding bright in the hot light.

The horizon shimmered, bleeding silver into the sky where they touched. A human would call it a mirage, the illusion of glistening water and shadowy shapes, for a Cybertronian it might be the same, but Sunstreaker knew there was no cooling water up ahead.

Above, the faint shadow of the seeker continued onward, hidden in the glare of the sun. Uncaring of his pursuer, they flew with ease under the baking heat, a faint golden glint in the sky while another golden glint roared at the head of a billowing cloud of dust—it was a deadly game of chase.

The chase went on with neither gaining distance. Sunstreaker’s engine whined dangerously, redlining as he continued to scream across the blistering desert. All he could focus on was catching that lunatic that had left his brother a broken pile of half dead scrap.

He was going to catch that crazy jet and feed him his own wings!

The sun above blazed, the heat shimmer rising from the desert floor twisted the world, the pale sky melted into more than just the horizon. The blur between land and sky sizzled, melting into some wobbly impression of what a horizon should be.

Above him, drowning in the glare of the sun, Sunstorm laughed.

The sun grew, ballooning outward to take up most of the sky. Like the raging star it was, the surface boiled and great wisps of glowing gasses and plasma stretched and snapped and the world was bleached in its blinding light.

Sunstreaker only chased, knowing he should be disturbed by the distortion around him—even so, he was consumed with the desire to pursue. He had to catch the seeker.

In the sky the seeker burned, flying on surrounded by crackling flames of blinding energy—unafraid he flew forward, laughing in righteous delight.

The desert stretched on under the bloated, hellish sun. The two locked in their chase—one **knowing** while the other was being _delivered._

Time stretched and seized, Sunstreaker’s engine shrieked, and above him the seeker’s engines roared.

It was eons before Sunstreaker—staggering on foot through an endless desert, chasing after the shadow of a seeker under the giant, screaming sun—remembered his brother’s name.


	24. Demon

Prowl stood just outside the circle he’d drawn on the floor of his well-lit workshop—his fingers were still stained but that was unimportant. He turned through his notes one final time, feeling the nervous hope bubbling up in his chest as everything was perfectly set for what he wished to do. Despite his eagerness to get what he desired most, he would not let haste ruin this.

He missed Jazz so terribly.

He took one last look at the summoning circle, letting his weary optics following the outermost circle, making sure it was solid with not openings, then turned his critical gaze to the intricate litany of glyphs and arcane symbols. Each one was studied, making sure he had not misformed them, and the talismans at the cardinal points were affirmed to be correct.

The inner ring was perfect as well, and the polyhex—a tetrahex, to be exact—in the center was drawn in the correct configuration in a darkly colored mix of soot, oil, and his own energon.

Perfect.

Prowl turned to his noted and flipped through the hand written acetone sheets and metallic flimsies until he found the spell he needed. The words flowered from his lips, confident and yet reverent—it never did well to offend the one you were asking favors of—as he gathered fine silver dust in his right hand.

Prowl truly did not need to read the spell, he had committed the words to his memory long ago when he’d started this obsessive endeavor but had never spoken them in full. Now he let the words of power spill from him, imbuing them with intent and the magic he had spent so long learning, mastering.

The summoning circle light up, a dull blue-white glow that grew steadily as he walked around to sprinkle the silver dust over the ring of glyphs. The words continued to flow, the spell winding and charging the air with the whine of static. Finally, with the last of the words and a complete rotation around the circle, Prowl tossed the last of the silver dust toward the center—the glitter caught the static in the air.

Light burst through the workshop along with a booming rumble that rattled the walls.

Opening his optics once the flash of blinding light had faded, Prowl found what looked like a strange mech standing in the center of the circle. He was all spikes and burnished silver plating with a black visor and fringed horns.

He almost looked like some twisted visage of Jazz. Prowl felt a pain in his chest but knew it was an illusion—not that it mattered, he didn’t need this demon to take on a familiar visage to get a deal out of him.

“Dolos--I have called you and bound you,” Prowl spoke, words smooth and confident while his circuits sand and his spark throbbed in his chest. Soon. Soon his Jazz would return. “Grant me a favor, for your power is great, mighty Dolos, and I shall release you.”

The demon took a moment, seemingly ignoring the words as it looked at the carefully drawn circle it was caged within, and then around at the neatly organized workshop. After slowly turning in place, the almost-Jazz turned to look at Prowl, the dark visor betraying nothing.

It was unnerving, but what did Prowl expect from a demon?

“Thou have summoned me with skill and great care. Thy favor will be granted but be warned--” The voice was definitely nothing like Jazz, all rhaspy purring growls that immediately had the warlock—and Prowl was a warlock now if he was summoning literal demons to do as he wished—on edge. “Should thou fail to keep thy word thy fate is forfeit.”

“You have my word, Dolos.”

The demon—Dolos--smiled and held out slender silver arms in an inviting gesture, clawed digits wiggling in expectation. Prowl knew better than to free the creature from the circle keeping it contained.

“Speak thy desire and I shall grant thee a favor, whatever it may be.”

“I have lost my lover, Jazz of the Five Glades.” Prowl had spend almost three vorn finding the ancient name of Polyhex that the spell required—Demons were very specific, it seemed. “I wish him to return to me, whole in both frame and spark.”

The demon nodded, his smile turning from keen and full of mischief to something sharper. Prowl didn’t like it, he could feel his plating pulling tight in against him, his doorwings fanning out as it to pick up signals from whatever danger he was sensing,

Dolos lowered his arms, bending over in an elegant bow though the dark black of his visor remained locked with Prowl’s gaze. 

“So be it.” He rose again, the slender arm held out and a small black space was held in his claws. “Place this under thy berth and thy lover shall return to thee. Thine optics must not look upon it after it is placed or thy wish will not come to be.”

Reaching out, rust-stained fingers took the black spade without fear—Prowl knew the demon could not come out of the circle unless the marks themselves were broken—and set it atop his notes. He regarded Dolos after, the demon watching him in turn with that less than pleasant smile.

After another long moment Prowl reached back to the little bowl of silver dust he had used earlier, scooping up a small handful before turning back to the demon creature watching him. 

“Great Dolos, I thank you for service. Leave me with no ill will, I beg of you, and be free to return to your domain.” The glittering silver dust was thrown into the circle, the sparkling cloud coming down around the silver demon as the brightly glowing circle flashed, the light fading to leave the red rust and darker oil markings on the floor as they’d been before. 

The demon’s figure had become hazy, swirling like smoke before it dissipated, gone and free of the magic that had pulled it here.

Well—that had gone well.

Heaving a great sigh through his vents, the nervousness draining from his frame, Prowl plucked up the spade from his pile of notes as he left the circle as it was to turn off the lights in his workshop. He supposed putting the small, black—it appeared to be glass—object under his berth was something not to dally with.

He made his way to his berthroom, a converted office of the warehouse he now lived in, and knelt down beside his berth to shove the spade into the center space of the floor beneath. He left it there and got up to finish the rest of his evening.

The entire ordeal of summoning a demon—and he still couldn’t believe it had gone so perfectly—had left him exhausted but he knew he would not sleep yet. He spend the rest of the evening cleaning up, fueling, and then scrubbing the rust stains from his fingertips.

Soon Jazz would return. Soon—but he had to be well fueled and clean first. He didn’t want the first thing his lost lover did to be a lecture about his poor self-care habits. 

Finally Prowl’s excitement could not keep him online any longer and he collapsed into berth to slip into recharge. His dreams were filled with memories and hopes of Jazz. His troublesome, wonderful Jazz.

There was no Jazz come the next orn. But that was alright, Dolos had not said exactly how quickly this return would be but Prowl could only hope it would not be too long. Even so, he was patient—he did not let the temptation to look under his berth take him. He had spent too long, sacrificed too much, to jeopardize this chance.

Jazz did not appear the next orn. 

Nor the orn after.

It was on the fifth orn that Prowl was awoken by the sensation of hands running over the upholstery of his doorwings. The shifted under the touch as he came online, the shape the sensitive appendages registered was a familiar one. Glee bubbled up in him, and he rolled to the side as weight shifted onto the berth.

Above him a visor glowed, though it was not the blue he expected. A warm amber light spilled down on him from a face that was very much the same as the Jazz he’d known. But as his sleep hazed processor fully onlined and he looked up, continuing to roll as Jazz? crawled up to straddle himhe noticed other details that were off.

The black white and blue he was expecting was more white and red, the amber visor, the grin that was so familiar but just slightly off. 

Who…?

“Jazz?” The question was tentative, hope flickering still as the familiar thrum of the strange mech’s engine and field felt very much like his Jazz. Humor lanced through the visored mechs field and he chuckled, running clawed fingertips over the curve of Prowl’s bumper.

“Sure. And yer Prowl. Ya look different—your helm’s all shiny an’ white. Mm~ Mosta ya is shiny an’ white. Diggin’ the red chevron.” The almost-Jazz leaned forward, planting a kiss on said red chevron only to bite into the edge with sharp denta.

Prowl flinched, reaching up to gently push… Jazz back some. ‘Jazz’ growled but let him, looking down at Prowl with a predators interest, the light in his warm amber visor cunning but not as friendly as Prowl remembered.

This was Jazz, some other Jazz, but he’d gotten what he’d asked for even if it wasn’t exactly what he’d desired. But this was Jazz, he _knew_ that, the demon could not send him someone that wasn’t Jazz.

Prowl would just have to adjust and hope that the Jazz staring down at him like a hungry beast wouldn’t actually eat him.

He would adjust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know SG Jazz looks super similar to normal Jazz but I wanted him to look distinctly different so now he's SG Ricochet. FIGHT ME.


	25. Chant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: Burning alive. mentions of drowning, asphyxia, and crushing. human (robot) sacrifice

He could hear them droning on, the ritual words and prayers a constant murmur from the masses outside. The volume shifted, rising and falling as those outside became lost in the chanting, their cries and cheers.

Hot Rod looked out the tiny window of his prison at the falling twilight and the low glow of many small fires. It would be soon, the droning chant of the… priests? He didn’t know what they were but they seemed like priests. 

He’d been trapped here for half a vorn, kidnapped with a few others by these strange mecha in this strange land. That’s what he got for traveling—Ultra Magnus hadn’t wanted him to go…

They came to him then, some of the strange maybe-priests, and they held him still—he’d long ago learned he couldn’t fight his way free of them, he needed to wait for a better opportunity—and painted strange patterns of gold over his red and orange plating. 

They’d be pretty cool if it wasn’t for the whole sacrifice thing they’d told him about when he was first brought here.

Painted and bound he was pulled from his long time prison and out into the throng. The roaring murmur was louder here, the chanting of the priests all around the site were a cascading backdrop to all other sound. Hot Rod could barely hear his own, increasingly panicked, thoughts—it was time.

Ahead, in the clearing, he could see the four pedestals, one for each of their sacred elements. Broadside was already there, blabbering on in his fright as he was held beside a shallow tub of water just large enough for him. Hot Rod would think the big triplechanger would count as two sacrifices, but nooo, being a boat only a third of the time was only good for one godly sacrifice.

Impactor was there as well, though his heavy outer plating had been removed with utmost care—leave it to these weirdos to be gentle with their sacrifices—so that he was a mass of inner workings, all exposed gears, wires, and relays. There was a hefty pile of large boulders and a behemoth of a mech waiting to lift them up and place them down. 

Uhg… He didn’t know which was worse, the death by crushing Impactor had to face or his own fate.

Hot Rod was dragged, his legs reluctant to take him so easily to his doom, up to and pushed in a cylindrical cage. He hated it, and kicked at the reinforced—what was this, unutrium?--door as it was latched closed and kindling began to be piled up at the base.

He could hear Whirl yelling, trying to incite a brawl as he was pulled up on the opposite side and crammed into a tube of some kind. Hot Rod would guess a vacuum tube. 

This sucked.

He tried to push the fear away but it was hard, hearing the strange mecha cheer and scream at them, all words of praise, knowing they were going to die. The endless chanting continued on, almost soothing in its steadiness though it did nothing to stop his spark from spinning wildly.

The chanting words shifted, becoming fervent and his own panic spiked. Behind him he could hear the muffled cursing of Whirl, and there was a splash to his left. He was suddenly too distracted by the heat of a furnace lighting under him and the kindling catching flame at his feet to pay attention to whatever was going on with Impactor.

Prayers rang out from the gathered mecha but he sent his own prayers to Primus. Already he was wiggling around in the heating confines of his cage, no longer caring of the many optics watching this terrible display.

Water.

Stone.

Air.

Fire.

Somewhere he could hear an engine stalling out, probably Broadside as they held him under, and the crowd sang their praise. 

Flame licked at his plating, the furnace under the cage billowing more heat than the burning kindling itself could produce. It hurt and he knew he was far from death yet. The paint on his legs was already bubbling…

The chanting grew, soaring out over the gathered crowd and the four sacrificial ‘gods.’ The words were nothing Hot Rod understood, but the many layered voices drowned out the frantic crowd. The fire roared under him, making the energon in his lines boil.

He was screaming.

Slowly, the heat grew and his own metal began to warp and soften. The chanting and the roar of fire was all he could hear and as the searing pain engulfed his core the chanting was in his head. The words made sense as everything else whited out.

He wasn’t just some avatar god for them to burn in worship.

He was **Fire.**


	26. Hunt

The halls of the Autobase were quiet. The various Autobots within were all hard at work, if silent, where they were gathered. Some were in the armories, sitting silently beside one another as they serviced their weapons and gave them a final check—others were in the commissary or recreation room doing much the same. A few were hold up in their private quarters or barracks.

The tension was palpable in all corners of the base. 

Bluestreak was hunched over in a corner, cleaning his rifle without looking at anyone else in the room. He oiled the weapons parts and wiped it down, movements rigid with building tension as he assembled it and made sure his ammunition clips were fully charged.

Prowl was in his office, his own gun on his desk as he tended to it and his acid pellet rounds. He studiously ignored the oddly quiet Jazz on the floor, checking over his own hand gun and the wicked daggers he’d be taking into battle.

In the medibay, Ratchet was preparing as well. Everything was clean and any needed tools were ready on hand, but these things were secondary. He, too, was readying a weapon with unease, not pleased at needing it but there was no chance he wouldn’t become a target as well.

Optimus Prime was in the command center, having taken care of his preparations early, and was monitoring his soldiers while they made ready to fight. He was the only one there, having dismissed everyone else and now watched the communications hub and base security feed on his own. He wondered what Megatron and his Decepticons were doing to prepare themselves.

As Cybertron catapulted around the small star it had been circling and began its careening path into the cold void of space, long, dim shadows stretched out from the ruins of cities and the looming forms of fortifications. Every Autobot gathered their weapons and headed for the exit.

No one spoke as they moved, the shuffle of their steps and the low hum of stressed systems the only noise to be found in Autobase as they filed out into the Long Night that came whenever there planet left the light of a star.

As the shadows grew and the light faded, the mecha split off, fleeing into the dark blanketing their home. When the last of the dimming light was gone and Cybertron and its children were enshrouded in the cloaking dark, the first shots were fired.

Somewhere in the dark, a saboteur’s blades sank between the plating of one of his subordinates. The Prime’s ion blaster flashed in the night, taking down Decepticon and Autobot alike.

Somewhere, someone was screaming as a round of acid pellets sizzled and ate into their side.

Faction loyalty meant nothing now as bots stalked friend and foe alike. 

The Hunt had begun.


	27. Possessed

Something was wrong with Sideswipe.

Sunstreaker had noticed a weird muting over their twin bond but hadn’t been concerned at first. It was only after it persisted for an Earth week that he became worried. His brother had been seemed normal otherwisde.

But then Sunstreaker hadn’t been paying attention.

Now he was sitting sitting outside the Ark, unable to truly enjoy the sun on his plating as he watched his brother standing not terribly far away. Sideswipe was still, more still than he should be, staring at the entrance of the ship and watching anyone coming or going.

It was kind of creepy.

Over the next week Sunstreaker kept an eye on his brother, Sideswipe’s off behavior continued to manifest and the rest of the crew began to take notice to some degree. No one approached Sideswipe in the rec room anymore, but he didn’t despair. He simply sat and watched, an odd glint in his optics.

And their bond was still so muffled.

“What’s up with you?” They were alone in their room when Sunstreaker broached the subject. He was sitting on the couch while Sideswipe was mindlessly fiddling with a knickknack while staring into space without answering.

“Sides?” 

Slowly the dark helm turned, the unnerving glint of light in his brother’s optics danced as his gaze focused on Sunstreaker and the yellow Lamborghini fought the instinctual response to bristle up at it. Anger bubbled up to replace it but he kept from lashing out—he was worried too. 

This was… wrong. 

“I’m fine Sunny,” Sideswipe smiled but it was wrong, the good humor was missing and it was the usual sort of gleeful promise of violence he wore sometimes either. No, this was more… smug, sinister—that smile was one that knew things Sunstreaker did not.

He hated it.

This is how it remained for another two weeks, Sunstreaker watching his brother, his brother watching everyone with an odd predatory interest. It never went beyond that, and though the rest of the crew avoided him there was, oddly, no provocation from them either. 

Half way through the third week only Optimus would look at them, quietly concerned from across the room.

He watched as Sideswipe met his gaze, the too-knowing smile splitting his face before he got up and left—Sunstreaker followed.

Something woke Sunstreaker in the middle of the night. He was quiet, listening, but couldn’t hear anything that might have woken him. After another moment of peering over his arm into the dark of the room his confusion only grew. Something had disturbed his sleep.

He’d barely managed to get out of berth before the muddled sense of confusion and a clear, bright flare of panic—not his own—washed through the bond. Sideswipe wasn’t in the room, he noted, and Sunstreaker was quick to leave and go on a hunt for his brother.

He wasn’t hard to find.

Sideswipe was slumped against the wall near the officers quarters, dazed and unsteady as he clung to the wall for support. Sunstreaker rushed to help him up, both concerned and elated at how normal their bond felt now—Sideswipes confused complaining was a welcome dose of normality on top of everything else.

With one arm around his brother’s waist he carted him to the medibay, all while Sideswipe grumbled and asked what had happened—as if Sunstreaker would know? He was so happy that things seemed better he didn’t even complain about the stupid questions.

One trip to the medibay and one late-night exam from a somewhat wary Ratchet became one trip to the medbay and one late-night dressing down from an irate Ratchet the moment it seemed Sideswipe was Sideswipe again—all non-normative Sideswipe behavior was vehemently denied—and all the creepy, off putting otherness had been done away with!

Of course both Ratchet and Sunstreaker became more worried when Sideswipe seemed unable to remember the better part of the last month.

“So you don’t remember staring down Bumblebee like you wanted to eat his face off?”

“Nooo?” Sideswipe looked at his brother as if he was the one giving him face-eating looks. 

“And you don’t remember making Jazz do the awkward laugh?” Ratchet asked without looking away from a medical console and its various readouts.

“The what? Jazz doesn’t have an awkward laugh!”

“You made him have one.”

“Frag--”

Ratchet found nothing wrong with Sideswipe, or Sunstreaker once he ‘convinced’ him to allow a medical scan as well, and sent them back to berth with the promise that the red idiot would return tomorrow for more tests. There was nothing to do about the missing memory for now.

It was only the following morning, when the twins had gone to the commissary to pick up their morning rations, that another bout of panic washed through their twin bond. Sunstreaker saw Sideswipe turn to look at him a moment before turning to follow the hard gaze to where Optimus Prime sat with the other officers.

The Prime was looking back, his steady gazed marred by a sharp, uncanny light.


	28. Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: Don't screw with Jazz?
> 
> I'll have a gust over at my house for the next week but I will TRY to get the last couple of these done on time. If not they'll be posted once my friend leaves :v

Jazz was a well of secrets, a treasure trove of hidden knowledge that deflected most unwanted interest away with a dazzling smile and good humor. He was currently smiling up at Soundwave, who had him bound after a thorough beating—sneaky saboteur wasn’t lucky all of the time. 

The telepath had long been working on a crack to finally _finally_ get into the depths of Jazz’s archives and no smiling menace, unnerving as the little Autobot could be, was going to deter him. 

“Soundwave, you gonna wine and dine me this time?” The cheeky little menace didn’t even seem upset with his current position.

“Negative.” Soundwave took a step forward and made quick work of jacking into one of the bound mech’s dataports, slamming into the resistant systems until he ran headlong into massive firewalls. On the table Jazz had lost his grin, scowling up at the Decepticon as Soundwave probed in hopes of finding a weakness in the code.

It was a fun game, more fun for Soundwave than Jazz, as one moved, scouring over the walls of code while the other moved to strengthen any gaps that might but present. It took time, lots of time that left the Autobot’s processor in pain, but eventually Soundwave found the one little flaw he needed.

He uploaded the crack, a psudovirus designed to break apart and impede those impressive firewalls but otherwise not damage the system they belong to.

He could feel Jazz panic and it was _delightful._

“Sounderwave--” Jazz hissed as the impeding mishmash of coding began to dissolve into chaos and Soundwave bypassed the compromised security measures and plunged deep, accessing memory files and deeper, older encrypted archival information. 

“Sounders, that’s a bad idea, mech.”

Soundwave let Jazz try his pleading, he was too engrossed in his near victory as he forced broke the encryptions on anything that looked like sensitive information. One file, while old and locked tight as the others, seemed rather benign until he accessed it.

And suddenly the well of secrets was open.

These were not Autobot secrets, and that was fine with Soundwave, any secret was a good secret as far as he was concerned. The information flowed as he slowed to inspect it more carefully. 

Secrets old—some older than the war, older than Soundwave imagined Jazz to be—and new were open to him but as he absorbed the knowledge it was soon tainted with something forbidden.

Jazz was Pandora and Soundwave had fallen into the box.

Falling deeper into things he should not know, things he could hardly fathom, Soundwave found himself unable to pull himself free. Jazz did nothing to assist in ejecting the invader from his mind, allowing his enemy to sink into horrors and truths which tore his very understanding asunder.

Lost in the knowing, in the understanding, Soundwave was unaware of his own frame being moved. Jazz was free and the cable connecting them ripped free but Soundwave could not know, he knew too many other things—terrible and wonderful and incomprehensible things.

And others who know those things too, lost in the horrific awe of truth, would have greeted him if they could be torn from the ever swirling knowledge to notice another addition to their number.

Secrets were power and Soundwave had fallen into it like a pebble into a star.

“What did you do to him?” Mirage asked, inspecting the living but unresponsive Soundwave. “It’s like he’s in recharge but… not.”

Jazz grinned, holding his half torn off finger to his lips. “That, my dear ‘Raj, is a secret.”


	29. Decay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: body horror. some kinda mild eye horror
> 
> its hard to write when i got a guest over distracting me with video games :y

This planet was a world of decay. Their bodies were not fit for such a place. Too much water, too many soft living things. 

Starscream hated it more each day.

Bleeding rust stains streaked red-brown to mar white plating while organic things bred, taking root in joins and seams and growling—spreading. It itched, the organic things slowly encrusting him, spreading out like some disease to seize his joints and lock away his mobility.

The tide began to roll in, cool salt water rushing past his ruined plating and trickling in through the holes rust had eaten away. It was cold, tickling his internal wiring and making the scale and encrusted living things in their hard little shells squirm.

Perhaps they should not have dismissed the humans so easily—not that it mattered now.

He couldn’t move, he and the other Decepticons had been immobilized and left on some remote rock, on the edge of the ocean. It had been so long—many of the other’s had fallen into stasis already, but not all. It was worse, perhaps, that they couldn’t even communicate with one another.

Starscream didn’t think so, he didn’t want to listen in as everyone slowly despaired.

His own was bad enough.

Another wave of the rising tide flowed around him as he stared out at the horizon like a broken doll. Something with too many legs skittered across the inside of his optic lens—some small crustacean with a little spiral s hell.

He hoped he’d slip into stasis soon—he didn’t want to feel himself rotting away any longer.


	30. Doppelganger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: not scary :'D
> 
> what's proof reading?
> 
> Continuation of chapter 24

Prowl ignored the low growl and smash of… something in his kitchen, focused on the datapad in his hands. He knew it wouldn’t he long now and had already braced himself for the discomfort—when a hand grabbed his left doorwing and yanked it he didn’t even flinch.

He’d learned not to flinch.

“Prowl--”

“No, Jazz.” There was a long moment of silence, the fingers gripping his doorwing tightening for a moment before suddenly letting go. Prowl didn’t look up from his novel, ignoring the snarl from behind him.

“I know you’re angry so why don’t you go outside and use the new dummy I made for you? I made it more realistic than the last one.”

There was another long pause before he sensed the Jazz turn and slink away and out of the room. Prowl held still, waiting, and only relaxed marginally when he heard the whimpering and wailing of the golem he’d made.

Now that he was alone, Prowl switched one datapad from another—this one an old achademic text on demonology. He’d read it before but it never hurt to review old information. There had to be an naswer in here somehow, something to tell him how this had happened.

This Jazz was not his own. He loved this Jazz too, there was too much that was similar for him not too, but this one was so much more temperamental and moody—violence was something he’d grown used though now it was threats for the most part.

Jazz had learned magic hurt and Prowl didn’t need wands or magic dust to nail him with something painful.

So now he went over his notes and the various texts, looking for hints as to why the demon—Dolos--had given him this other Jazz. This Jazz that was and was not Jazz.

There was as sickening crunch from outside and Prowl sighed, knowing he’d have to make Jazz another golem to sink his claws into or face dealing with all that wild aggression himself. Perhaps he should just give up perusing the demon situation and focus on making more realistic toys?

Or a magical prison.

No, that was too much. This Jazz was still Jazz, just less kind.

A mass of unpleasant solutions whirled in his mind as he thought, various ways to contain or control his new, wilder Jazz as well as uncertain plans revolving around the demon he’d summoned--

Another switch of datapads, the novel returning to his hands. Prowl was silent, wariness heavy in him as he waited. He knew he could defend himself but that didn’t stop injuries from happening before he managed to drive Jazz off.

It wasn’t long before Jazz was throwing himself down beside him, half sprawled over the wary warlocks lap. He really did like the blue over the red… 

Lukcily there was now clawing or biting—the golem must be in several pieces out in the yard.

“Are you feeling better?”

Jazz only grinned, all fang and malicious delight—at least he was no longer ready to lash out at Prowl, having worked out all his aggression on the now surely destroyed golem. “Much! So--” Clawed fingers hooked under Prowl’s underbumper, tugging him donward despite his growing scowl.

“What do I gotta do t’get that magicy stuff workin’ on my side?”

Prowl didn’t like the implications behind that tone.


	31. Candy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: drug use. Sorta
> 
> continuation of last chapter.

“Double, double toil and trouble—Fire burn, and caldron bubble.” Prowl murmured, pouring silver dust into the bubbling pot and stirring it into the brightly colored mixture. The smell of sweet energon and tangy additives wafted from the roiling mix, thee large bubbles foaming as he added a spoonful of bismuth shards. 

“Pfft—Really, Prowler?” Jazz was sitting on the counter near by, having been drawn in by the smell and was, for once, not making a menace of himself. Prowl blamed it on a desire for sweets.

Jazz wouldn’t be getting any if he made Prowl burn them.

Prowl looked up from his toiling, giving Jazz a small smile before looking back to the bubbling energon concoction before him. “Cool it with a turbofox's blood—Then the charm is firm and good.”

“It ain’t a potion! Weirdo--”

“I’m surprised you don’t find this enjoyable. Since you’re always making jokes about my craft.”

“Shut up!”

“Alright, just settle down.”

Jazz grumbled, sulking on the counter top and watching as Prowl turned the heat off and collected the tray of gelled energon he’d made earlier. Each one was carefully lifted on a two pronged fork and dipped into the still hot mixture before putting it back on the tray to cool—they would be covered in a vivid red shell of crunchy, flavored candy once they set.

Prowl paid him no mind.

It took some time, all the while with Jazz being very patient, until all the treats were coated and cool enough to eat. Prowl already had one of the barely set treats on a small plate before Jazz could get his grubby hands on the rest, offering the treat to his beloved before the troublemaker could even slide off the counter top.

“For lil’ ol’ me?” Now Jazz purred, pleased to have both Prowl’s attention AND a yummy, freshly made treat. 

The plate was taken from white hands, claws fingers plucking the candied energon up with care as am amber visor sparkled with glee. Jazz bit into it, fangs snapping the coating with a crunch before sinking into the softer gelled interior.

The warlock watched on with that same small smile from before, pleased at the positive reaction. Even this Jazz liked sweets, even had the same preferences—it made it too easy, sometimes.

“You like it, then?” When all Prowl got was a pleased, rumbling purr of the engines and a nod as Jazz continued consuming his treat, he stepped back to get Jazz another one. “I’m glad. I like it when you’re happy.”

“I like it when I’m happy too.” The answer was muffled, the little beast speaking with his mouth full—Prowl didn’t mind.

He only needed to wait.

Two more of the candied treats vanished in Jazz’s greedy maw, Prowl all the while enjoying the pleasant, almost familiar atmosphere. It was so similar to time spent with his old Jazz, if only this one’s colors matched.

No matter.

After one more treat Jazz seemed lethargic and Prowl helped him down from the counter and lead him by the arm, the compliant, if muttering, Jazz following as they moved into Prowl’s—their--berthroom.

“Uhgg--’M tired, Prowl! Think I ate too many...” There w as no more fighting from Jazz as he was steered into the berth, Prowl sitting on the edge beside him to gently rub a thumb over a dark stubby horn.

“Rest then, I’ll be here when you wake.” White fingers slid down, the same thumb sliding gently over the bottom edge of the dimming orange visor as Jazz—red and white Jazz—slid into recharge. 

The potion he’d made worked quite well, he thought, and it would be much easier to weave binding spells over an unconscious and easily suggestible target than a violently contrary one. 

“Soon, my Jazz.” Prowl crooned, smiling down at the resting figure who was and was not his Jazz. “Soon I’ll have you more yourself.” He applied just a bit more pressure of the bottom edge of the amber visor, feeling it shift minutely. He’d have to pry it off later. “We’ll start with this—Blue always looked better on you.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Cyrstals of the Crystal Gardens](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21080759) by [Snowfire (Snowdream)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowdream/pseuds/Snowfire)


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